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GUY-  BERTON 


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ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 


\ 


THEY    TURNED   AND   STUMBLED   IN    A    PANIC 
DOWN  THE  STAIRS." 


m 

Art  1  hou  the 
Man  ? 

By 
Guy    Berton 

Illustrations  By 
Charles  R.   Macauley 

New  York 

Dodd,  Mead    and    Company 

1905 

M 

M 

Copyright,   1905, 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 

(All  rights  reserved) 

Published,  March 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  They  Turned  and  Stumbled  in  a  Panic  down 

the  Stairs  "  Frontispiece 

Facing 
Page 

"  The  Officers    ....    Shuddered  and  Stood 

Silent "  10 

"  *  They  Don't  Know    ....    That's  Certain. 

They  Don't  Know— Yet '  "  76 

Marcia  106 

«  '  La !     Some  One  is  There  '  "  192 

"  The  Trooping  in  of  the  Shadows  to  Envelope 

Him "  200 


CHAPTER  I 

Cry  "  Murder ! "  in  the  market  place,  and  each 
Will  turn  upon  his  neighbour  anxious  eyes 
That  ask— "Art  thou  the  man?" 

— RuDYARD  Kipling. 

A  WHISPER  went  through  the  Quarter;  at  first 
formless,  undefinable,  and  thin.  It  penetrated 
the  walls  of  the  gambling-houses,  siftingly,  like 
dry  cold.  The  men  at  play  lifted  their  heads — 
listened;  silently  pushed  their  stacks  of  chips 
toward  the  dealers,  shoved  back  their  chairs; 
without  a  woi'd  went  out  into  the  street.  It 
crept  between  the  swinging-doors  of  the  saloons 
like  an  ugly  presence.  Men  with  glass  on 
lips  paused,  waited,  put  down  their  drink 
untasted — quickly  left  these  places.  It  per- 
meated the  dance-houses;  women  shivered  and 
paled  without  knowing  why;  checked  the  rav- 
ings of  the  pianos ;  looked  at  one  another  with 
vague  awe,  then  stealthily  barred  the  windows 
and  doors.  It  stole  up  and  down  the  street; 
loungers  halted  suddenly  on  the  sidewalk;  po- 
licemen thrust  their  inadequate  clubs  into  their 
belts,  felt  the  handles  of  their  revolvers ;  and 
over  every  person  in  the  Quarter,  that  night, 


2  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

there  came  a  sudden  dread,  a  feeling  of  suspi- 
cion, and  the  most  uncouth,  hardened  soul  was 
disturbed  incomprehensibly. 

In  the  office  of  the  Denver  Record,  the  tele- 
phone bell  rang  sharply,  peremptorily.  An- 
swered by  Armstrong,  the  city  editor,  a  voice 
shouted  excitedly: 

"  Another  woman  strangled." 

"Who?     Where?" 

"  Gisquette  Gringoire — ^French  Quarter !  " 

"  Where  are  you — at  their  club?  " 

"  Yes." 

"All  right.  Murphy  '11  join  you,"  Arm- 
strong replied.  Hanging  up  the  receiver,  he 
whirled  around  and  sung  out  to  a  man,  already 
getting  into  his  overcoat: 

"  Hurry  down  to  the  French  Club,  Murphy ! 
Simmonds  says  the  strangler  is  at  work  again  !  " 
The  reporter  grabbed  his  hat  and  vanished 
through  the  door. 

The  city  editor  resumed  his  work,  and  bar- 
ring a  few  desultory  exclamations,  the  local 
room — "  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and 
ever  shall  be,"  as  the  church  reporter  once  said 
in  a  burst  of  irreverent  levity — returned  calmly 
to  its  usual  routine;  for  even  on  these  tempes- 
tuous nights  when  murders,  suicides,  scandals, 
wrecks,  and  fires  seem  by  their  number  and  coin- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  3 

cidence  to  announce  a  coming  cataclysm,  its 
serenity  is  seldom  clouded. 

Here,  adventitious  shades  of  blotting-paper 
concentrate  the  lights  of  many  electric  lamps 
on  the  tables  where  the  reporters,  in  various 
phases  of  dishabille,  write  in  every  known  degree 
of  feverishness.  From  one  wall,  a  clock  with  a 
jaundiced  face — at  least  twenty  years  old — 
stares  down  with  the  insolent  admonition  that 
time  is  short ;  upon  a  second  wall,  a  brazen  fire- 
alarm  gong  is  fairly  tinghng  with  expectancy; 
opposite  the  clock,  the  telephone,  militant  and 
instantaneous,  holds  infinite  possibilities  of  sen- 
sation. Elsewhere  lithographs  in  profusion — 
portraits  of  Presidents,  pugihsts,  actresses, 
parades,  and  local  celebrities. 

In  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  room  stands 
the  desk  of  the  city  editor.  It  is  of  black  wal- 
nut, old-fashioned,  battered  and  begrimed,  yet 
staunch  and  brave  after  its  many  years  of  ser- 
vice. City  editors  have  come  and  gone;  but 
it  has  endured  "  the  insolence  of  office  and  the 
spurns  "  and  bears  its  scars  like  a  soldier.  The 
old  desk,  fragrant  with  memories,  is  a  catacomb 
of  genius,  mummied  in  manuscript  and  the  home 
of  a  thriving  family  of  cockroaches ;  in  its 
drawers  and  pigeon-holes  there  is  a  haggis  of 
nondescript  and  transient  articles  that,  if  you 


4  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

but  knew  their  stories,  would  introduce  you 
to  a  vocation  strange  and  unconventional. 
Here  also,  treasured  most  of  all,  are  the 
old  assignment  books  —  fourteen  of  them, 
holding  flavours  of  romance  like  chronicles 
of  the  Round  Table  or  relics  of  bygone  min- 
strelsy. 

For  fourteen  years — so  laggard  is  promo- 
tion— Armstrong,  by  day  and  by  night,  has 
assigned  the  brisk  young  men  of  his  staff  to  their 
respective  duties  of  news-gathering;  and  you 
might  trace  their  names,  as  they  have  come  and 
gone,  upon  the  pages  of  these  books.  Two  you 
will  find  there  continuously :  Simmonds  and  Mur- 
phy', patriarchs  who  have  earned  their  patent 
of  nobility  in  the  fourth  estate.  They  can  tell 
you  many  a  merry  tale, — many  a  sad  one, — and 
prove  it  by  these  records. 

A  few  nights  after  the  murder  of  Gisquette 
Gringoire,  the  patriarch  Murphy  strode  into 
the  local  room,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 
His  hat  and  coat  were  dripping  wet.  Without 
stopping  to  remove  them,  he  at  once  confronted 
the  city  editor.  There  was  on  Murphy's  face 
an  expression  of  defiance  mingled  with  cha- 
grin, so  unmistakable  and  so  unnatural  to 
that  buoyant  soul,  that  every  other  reporter  in 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  5 

the  room  paused  in  his  work  to  look  at  him.  The 
city  editor  raised  his  head. 

"  Well?  "  he  asked,  briefly. 

"  Well,"  answered  Murphy,  dejectedly,  "  I'm 
dead  tired — beaten — up  a  stump.  If  you've 
got  anybody  here  who  thinks  he'd  make  a  bril- 
liant detective,  I  wish  you'd  turn  him  loose  on 
this  story,  that's  all." 

Armstrong  dropped  his  blue  pencil,  looked 
calmly  at  the  intrepid  chronicler  of  the  world's 
miseries,  and  inquired: 

"  What's  the  matter.  Murphy  ?  You  haven't 
fallen  down  on  the  strangling  story,  have  you .''  " 

In  the  city  editor's  tone  there  was  just  the 
suggestion  of  solicitude  and  appeal  to  pride  re- 
quired to  make  the  reporter's  discomfiture  com- 
plete. Murphy  flushed,  looked  at  the  wall  in  con- 
fusion, and  then  leaned  upon  the  desk  unmind- 
ful of  the  little  stream  of  water  that  trickled 
from  his  sleeve  across  a  pile  of  manuscript. 
His  voice  dropped  as  he  related  the  circum- 
stances of  his  failure;  and  only  an  occasional 
expletive,  or  a  morsel  of  slang,  tossed  out  of 
the  current  of  his  hurrying  narrative,  reached 
the  straining  ears  of  the  other  men.  All  were 
curious  to  learn  how  this  star  reporter,  hitherto 
so  confident  and  sure,  had  failed  on  the  biggest 
story  they  had  ever  known. 


6  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  Day  and  night,"  said  Murphy,  with  empha- 
sis, "  since  that  last  girl  was  strangled,  I  have 
sleuthed  with  the  detectives — made  friends  with 
every  Frenchman  I  could  induce  to  take  a  drink 
— hung  around  the  place  where  the  '  Compa- 
gnie '  make  its  headquarters,  till  to-night  they 
almost  threw  me  out.  Why?  Simply  because 
I  couldn't  convince  them  that  I  was  not  dig- 
ging up  evidence — trying  to  drive  them  all  out 
of  the  country." 

Murphy  was  exasperated,  humiliated.  The 
more  he  thought  of  it  all,  the  angrier  he  be- 
came. 

"  And  what  have  I  found  out  ?  "  he  exclaimed, 
furiously.  "  Just  this :  Diane  Therdier  was 
strangled  about  midnight,  August  30.  Marga- 
ret Valois,  about  midnight,  September  30.  Gis- 
quette  Gringoire,  about  midnight,  October  30. 
That's  about  all  I  know  and  about  all  anybody 
knows." 

"What  about  Richard  Therdier.?"  asked 
Armstrong.    "  The  police  think " 

"  Idiots ! "  interrupted  Murphy.  "  They 
haven't  any  evidence  against  him.  They  locked 
him  up  because  Diane  Therdier  was  his  wife, 
and  the  first  of  the  three  women  strangled. 
They  took  him  in  on  general  principles.  They're 
great  on  principles !    They  can't  convict  Ther- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  T 

dier!  Granting  that  he  did  strangle  his  wife, 
in  a  scrap,  what  the  devil  did  he  kill  the  other 
two  for?  They  were  not  robbed.  A  man  isn't 
going  around  killing  women  without  some  mo- 
tive, is  he?  " 

The  city  editor  and  Murphy  talked  long  and 
earnestly.  Finally,  Murphy  straightened  up, 
and  said,  resignedly : 

"  Can't  help  it,  Mr.  Armstrong.  I've  done 
my  best,  and  haven't  found  the  slightest  clue." 

Armstrong  turned  again  to  his  work. 

Murphy,  with  an  air  of  almost  comical  aban- 
don, tossed  his  overcoat  upon  a  chair,  threw 
himself  desperately  into  another,  put  his  feet 
on  a  desk,  lighted  a  long  cigar,  and  began  an 
intent  and  quizzical  study  of  the  dirty  ceiling. 
Silence  fell  upon  the  room,  intensified  by  the 
fluttering  of  loose  sheets  of  paper  and  an  occa- 
sional suppressed  ejaculation.  Outside,  the 
rain  tapped  a  dreary  monotone  on  roofs  and 
pavements;  and  at  short  intervals,  a  street-car 
gong  interjected  a  muffled  clang.  Suddenly 
Murphy  glanced  almost  affectionately  at  a 
young  man  at  work  across  the  room.  In- 
stantly the  expression  on  his  face  changed. 
At  least,  he  seemed  to  have  solved  a  vexatious 
problem.  He  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  and  ad- 
dressed Armstrong,  in  a  low  voice. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Armstrong " 


"  Yes,"  replied  the  editor,  without  looking 
up  from  his  papers. 

"  Would  you  mind  a  suggestion  from  me  ? 
A  favour,  if  you  will  ?  " 

Armstrong  was  surprised.  The  request  was 
unusual.     He  glanced  inquisitively  at  the  speaker. 

"  Out  with  it ;  but  you  know  you'll  have  to 
write  something.  Murphy." 

"  Why  not  give  the  youngster  a  show  ?  "  Mur- 
phy almost  whispered,  nodding  significantly. 
"  A  little  new  blood  might  turn  the  trick — I'U 
steer  him." 

Armstrong  reflected  a  moment.  He  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  semi-paternal  interest  that  the 
Patriarch  had  for  the  newcomer. 

"  All  right,  I'll  give  him  a  try,'*  he  said,  not 
unkindly,  and  then  went  on  somewhat  brusquely, 
"  Go  ahead  anyhow — roast  the  police  for  their 
incapacity — intimate  that  more  hustling  and 
less  theorising  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
welfare  of  this  community."  Armstrong  smiled 
grimly  upon  delivering  this  last  instruction, 
then  looked  across  the  room.  "  Mr.  Drake, 
come  here,  please." 

A  young  man  who  had  been  writing  dili- 
gently, with  barely  a  recognition  of  the  scene 
that  had  attracted  the  curious  attention  of  the 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  9 

other  reporters,  arose  and  approached  the  city 
editor's  desk.  He  was  about  twenty-seven 
years  old,  of  medium  height  and  muscular  build, 
with  broad  shoulders  and  a  suggestion  of 
athletic  training  in  his  movements. 

"Are  you  about  up,  Mr.  Drake.?"  asked 
Armstrong. 

"  All  but  one  short  item,"  he  replied. 

"  Hurry  with  it,  then.  I  want  you  to  take 
the  strangler  story.  I'll  talk  it  over  with  you 
presently." 

The  last  sheets  of  copy  for  the  early  mail  edi- 
tion had  just  gone  up  to  the  composing-room 
when  Armstrong  stopped  before  the  young 
man's  desk,  and  said : 

"  Here's  an  opportunity  for  good  work, 
Drake.  This  mystery  seems  impenetrable. 
There  is  something  uncanny — an  inexpressible 
horror  about  it.  Why,  even  the  officers,  when 
they  entered  the  bedchamber  of  the  third  vic- 
tim, that  night,  shuddered  and  stood  silent  as  if 
oppressed  by  the  shadow  of  a  terror.  Besides, 
the  victims  were  young,  pretty,  and  there  was  no 
apparent  motive  for  the  crimes." 

"  What's  your  theory  ? "  inquired  Drake, 
eagerly. 

"  I'm  undecided.  At  times,  I  think  the  mur- 
derer is  a  second  Whitechapel  fiend ;  then  again, 


10  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

I'm  almost  convinced  that  Therdier  is  guilty. 
The  police  think  tliat  he  killed  the  others  to 
divert  suspicion  from  himself.  You  will  recall 
that,  although  arrested  for  the  murder  of  his 
wife,  he  was  out  on  bail  when  the  other  crimes 
were  committed." 

"  Yes,  I  remember — and  at  intervals  of  a 
month  almost  to  the  very  hour." 

Armstrong  pursued  his  train  of  thought. 
"  He  must  have  been  a  man  of  amazing  physical 
strength.  In  none  of  the  cases  was  there  the 
least  evidence  of  a  struggle ;  and  a  single  scream 
would  probably  have  betrayed  him." 

"  Evidence !  "  exclaimed  Drake.  "  Is  there 
any  such  against  Therdier  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  He  says  he  was  at  the 
French  Club  playing  cards,  on  the  night  Diane 
Therdier,  his  wife,  was  killed.  He  returned  to 
his  house  at  midnight,  but  did  not  go  to  her 
room.  About  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  he 
arose  and  went  to  market.  In  the  meantime,  a 
servant  had  discovered  the  woman — dead.  The 
officers  came  and  arrested  him." 

"  Therdier,  it  seems  to  me,"  declared  Drake, 
"  is  just  the  sort  of  a  man  who  would  murder 
his  wife." 

"  Precisely,  and  yet  all  he  would  admit  was 
that,  after  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  he  was  half 


THE    OFFICERS    ....    SHUDDERED   AND 
STOOD   SILENT." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  11 

awakened  by  a  noise,  very  like  a  scream ;  but  in 
his  semi-conscious  state,  he  thought  it  was  a 
dream  and  fell  asleep  again.  Then  there  is  a 
theory,"  continued  Armstrong,  "  that  is  ex- 
tremely plausible  and  bad  for  Therdier.  His 
brother  Jacques,  the  owner  of  the  French  Club, 
is  the  head  of  the  '  Compagnie.'  Suppose  these 
women  had  learned  some  of  their  secrets,  and 
the  society  determined  to  put  them  out  of  the 
way  ?  " 

"  It's  going  to  be  difficult  to  get  anything 
out  of  the  '  Compagnie,'  "  asserted  Drake. 

"  Yes,  they  are  extremely  suspicious,  and  will 
protect  Therdier,  not  only  with  money^  but  with 
all  the  resources  of  a  versatile  race.  There  is 
one  peculiar  thing  about  Therdier,"  said  Arm- 
strong, in  conclusion.  "  It  has  no  direct  bear- 
ing on  the  case,  but  it  impressed  me.  Although 
French-born,  his  early  life  was  passed  in  Con- 
stantinople and  other  parts  of  the  Orient  where 
little  value  is  placed  on  human  life — particu- 
larly women."  Returning  to  his  desk,  he  added : 
"  Therdier's  lawyer,  Henry  Woolford,  is  an  ex- 
traordinary man — a  keen  student  of  criminol- 
ogy.    First,  I  think  I'd  go  to  see  him." 

A  few  minutes  later  Drake  and  Murphy 
were  seated  at  a  table  in  their  favourite  comer 
at  Dupree's.     After  they  had  ordered  supper, 


12  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

the  Patriarch  unbosomed  himself.  Murphy's 
chief  characteristics  were  red  hair,  a  red  waist- 
coat, and  a  vocabulary  that  might  with  figura- 
tive accuracy  also  be  called  red.  This  vocabu- 
lary was  made  up,  for  the  most  part,  of  several 
varieties  of  slang,  each  excelling  the  others,  it 
seemed,  in  picturesque  indifference  to  the  rules 
of  speech.  How  Murphy  managed  to  write 
English  fit  to  be  printed  was  a  subject  of  con- 
tinual speculation  among  the  other  members  of 
the  staff.  The  city  editor  and  his  assistant 
might  have  enlightened  them;  but  the  most 
either  had  ever  said  on  this  point  was  a  remark 
Armstrong  made  one  night,  in  the  stress  of 
hurry  and  impatience,  to  the  effect  that  "  Mur- 
phy's contempt  for  verbs  was  positively  sub- 
lime." Whatever  his  failings  were  in  this  re- 
spect. Murphy  was  chivalrous  in  his  brazen 
way,  generous,  and  true. 

"  I  don't  envy  you  your  job,  old  man,"  said 
Murphy,  with  a  fetching  frankness,  by  way  of 
beginning  the  conversation. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  responded  Drake,  invitingly. 

"  No,  I'm  damned  if  I  do !  "  reiterated  Mur- 
phy, still  more  frankly.  Then  he  proceeded  with 
great  wealth  of  detail  and  with  many  copious 
extracts  from  his  own  volume  of  experience  to 
explain  why  he   had  failed  to   run   down   the 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  IS 

quarry,  and  why  he  was  content  to  let  Drake  win 
all  the  glory  there  might  be  in  the  undertaking. 

As  Drake  walked  homeward,  his  brain  was 
busy  with  all  the  disconnected  details  of  the 
case,  toiling  to  classify  them.  Only  a  few  fitful 
drops  of  rain  fell  now;  wet  stars  began  to  leak 
tricklings  of  light  through  the  wrack  of  flying 
clouds ;  thin  streamings  of  vapour  rose  from 
warm  spots  on  the  pavement.  Thinking  and 
walking  rapidly,  his  blood  flowed  hot;  he  re- 
moved his  raincoat  and  checked  his  athletic 
stride. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  home.  His  mother 
was  awake,  as  she  always  was  when  he  came 
in.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  he  related  to 
her  the  occurrences  of  the  night. 

"  I'd  rather  you  were  not  obliged  to  work  on 
such  stories,  Allan,"  she  said,  with  gentle  depre- 
cation ;  "  but  some  one  must,  I  suppose." 

"  Mother,  dear,"  he  said,  kissing  her  good- 
night, "  you  want  me  to  succeed — ^well,  here's 
my  chance." 


CHAPTER  II 

**  Inscrutable  by  nature  or  device. 
While  all  men  doubted  whether  he  might  be 
Profoundly  frigid  like  the  bitter  sea. 
Or  a  volcano  lapped  in  Arctic  ice." 

Henry  Woolford,  the  famous  criminal  law- 
yer, retained  by  Jacques  Therdier  to  defend  his 
brother  Richard,  lived  in  a  large  house  in  Vine 
Street.  It  was  set  far  back  in  a  wide  lawn,  and 
in  summer  was  half  concealed  by  superb  maple 
trees  whose  limbs  were  now  like  latticework, 
paintless  and  in  decay. 

The  following  afternoon,  Drake,  having 
vainly  attempted  to  gain  an  audience  of  the 
lawyer  at  his  office,  proceeded  to  obtain  it  at 
his  home.  A  woman  past  the  middle  age,  grey- 
haired,  erect,  one  of  the  vanishing  type  of  ser- 
vants, came  to  the  door.  She  seemed,  in  some 
impressibly  subtle  way,  to  be  a  proper  part  of 
the  establishment,  as  she  led  him  into  the  dark- 
ened reception  hall. 

A  minute  later  when  he  was  ushered  into  the 

library,  he  found  two  persons  there.    One,  a  man 

whom  he  knew  at  once  to  be  the  lawyer ;  the  other 

was  a  girl.    They  had  been  seated  at  a  massive 

14 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  15 

table  which  was  covered  with  books  and  papers. 
The  light  from  the  table-lamp  fell  bright  upon 
them ;  a  green  shade  kept  the  rest  of  the  room 
in  shadows,  save  for  the  fitful  crimson  glow  that 
came  from  the  open  fireplace.  Drake  was  aware 
of  certain  dim,  painted  faces  staring  solemnly 
out  of  the  wall ;  of  tall,  black  cases  filled  with 
books ;  of  grim  armour  in  one  dark  recess ;  of  a 
heavy  sword  suspended  above  the  mantelpiece; 
of  old-fashioned  chairs  and  a  damask  couch. 
It  was  only  an  impression,  to  be  sure,  but  some- 
how, trained  to  quick  perception,  he  felt  at 
once  an  undefinable  sensation  come  upon  him — 
not  readily  shaken  off.  He  was  familiar  with 
the  true  culture  that  effaces  as  well  as  with  the 
new  wealth  that  displays  itself.  Here  was 
something  different — occultation  and  a  meaning 
too  fine  for  instant  understanding. 

Henry  Woolford  was  thirty-eight  years  old, 
dignified,  cold,  and  courteous  in  his  greeting. 
He  was,  in  physique,  a  man  such  as  the  stupid- 
est observer  would  turn  to  look  upon  a  second 
time.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was  comely,  that 
he  was  strong ;  but  rather  that  in  his  comeliness 
and  strength  there  was  some  rare  quality  of  suf- 
ficiency— of  separateness — of  isolation.  He  was 
six  feet  in  height,  compactly  built,  virile,  in- 
tense, with  nerves  of  steel — the  kind  of  steel  they 


16  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

make  mainsprings  of  as  well  as  rifle  barrels  and 
armour  plate.  Above  a  broad  white  forehead, 
his  hair,  light  in  colour  and  fine  of  grain,  was 
thinning.  His  face,  pale,  but  not  unhealthy  in 
its  hue,  invited  scrutiny;  his  lips  delicate,  mo- 
bile, downward-curving;  nose  long  and  sensi- 
tive; jaws  massive  in  the  sweep  from  ears  to 
chin ;  eyes  grey-blue,  cold,  unsympathetic,  hold- 
ing in  their  depths  a  peculiar  potency  that 
sometimes  repelled,  as  often  fascinated. 

Woolford's  dress  was  of  the  best  material 
and  latest  cut.  It  had  the  appearance  of  hav- 
ing been  put  on  carelessly,  as  if  he  had  pur- 
chased his  clothes  with  close  attention  to  detail, 
and  had  forthwith  ceased  to  think  of  them.  In 
manner,  he  was  quick  and  nervous,  but  withal 
easy  and  reserved — a  kind  of  inexplicable  con- 
tradiction. It  was  not  until  he  spoke,  however, 
that  he  revealed  the  chief  secret  of  his  influence 
over  men.  He  had  a  marvellous  voice — sweet, 
musical,  resonant;  rich  in  coaxing  tones  and  in 
seducing  melodies.  It  was  the  voice  of  an  ora- 
tor, flexible,  under  absolute  control;  a  voice  to 
move  audiences  to  passion  and  juries  to  unrea- 
son ;  the  voice  of  an  angel,  a  tempter,  an  accus- 
ing spirit,  as  the  mood  might  be.  With  a  voice 
like  that,  and  a  mind  to  give  it  matter,  a  man 
may  speak  of  cube  roots  and  logarithms    as 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  17 

common  men  of  stars  and  bramble  dew ;  may 
easily  contrive  of  sticks  and  stones  a  glistering 
pageant  of  imagination. 

What  is  it — this  magic  of  the  human  voice? 
The  eyes  have  been  called,  with  poetic  aptness, 
the  windows  of  the  soul;  but  what  exaggerations 
of  the  fancy,  and  what  refinement  of  mere  words, 
can  fitly  designate  the  deep  significance  of  full- 
throated  speech !  Detailed  pedigrees  tell  much ; 
faces  in  keen  analysis  may  reveal  a  diagram  of 
family  history;  manners  give  continual  testi- 
mony to  good  breeding,  or  quick  exposure  of  the 
want  of  it;  but  the  voice,  truer  than  all  these, 
has  the  cunning  gift  to  place  its  owner,  indu- 
bitably and  beyond  appeal,  in  his  predestined 
place.  All  the  voices  of  his  ancestry — sweet  or 
bitter,  dissonant  or  symphonious;  prayers  and 
curses ;  costermongering  yells,  or  drawing-room 
cadenzas;  sadness  and  gaiety,  misery  and  joy; 
culture  and  ignorance;  taint  of  darkness  or 
touch  of  light — all  the  voices  of  his  ancestry  are 
composite  in  the  throat  of  every  man  that  parts 
his  lips  to  speak.  Time  may  obliterate  the  brand 
of  Cain,  but  only  eternity  can  sweeten  the  vow- 
els of  the  murderer ;  and  though  "  one  sad  lose! 
may  spoil  a  name  for  aye,"  a  hfe  of  ignoble 
deeds  can  little  more  than  harden  the  timber 
of  a  noble  nature's  accent. 


18  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

Henry  Woolford's  voice,  could  it  have  been 
analj'sed,  as  the  sun's  rays  are  broken  in  the 
spectroscope,  would  have  revealed  his  story  of 
heredity.  The  two  lines  of  his  ancestry,  paral- 
lel some  two  hundred  years  and  then  converged 
in  him,  were  distinctly  intellectual.  Henry's 
father  in  '61  had  left  a  lucrative  law  practice 
to  lead  a  regiment  of  Union  volunteers,  and,  a 
few  years  later,  had  died  of  wounds  received  in 
battle.  His  grandfather  was  a  governor  of  Ver- 
mont. His  great  grandfather  was  a  leader  in 
Congress — a  fiery  Whig  in  the  days  when  argu- 
ment and  oratory  were  the  familiar  weapons  of 
poHtical  antagonism.  His  mother  was  a  woman 
of  the  South.  Generation  after  generation,  the 
men  of  her  family  had  held  high  office  on  the 
bench — all  successful  in  that  leisurely  South- 
ern way  that  adds  to  sterling  character  so  fine 
a  flavour  of  distinction.  Thus  from  both  lines 
Henry  had  inherited  legal  talents,  acumen,  and 
psychological  powers,  concentrated,  purified  to 
the  very  essence  of  mentality.  It  was  a  note- 
worthy fact  that  despite  the  versatility  and  the 
capacity  of  the  Woolford  mind,  no  member  of 
the  family  had  distinguished  himself,  or  even 
sought  distinction  in  any  business  or  profession 
other  than  the  law — save  only  the  battlefields 
pf  politics  and  war.     Moreover,  no  collateral 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  19 

branch  of  the  Woolfords  had  endured  for  long, 
or  won  remembered  recognition.  The  man  and 
his  sister  were  "  all  the  daughters  of  their 
father's  house  and  all  the  brothers,  too." 

Henry  Woolford  had  become  the  foremost 
criminal  lawyer  of  Colorado — a  specialist. 
From  the  beginning  of  his  career  he  had  centred 
all  the  faculties  of  his  mind  upon  one  branch  of 
Ills  profession ;  he  had  steadily  narrowed  and 
deepened  his  researches ;  and  had  gradually  re- 
stricted his  practice  to  certain  exceptional 
phases  of  criminal  defence.  In  the  conduct  of 
a  case  he  displayed  a  genius  for  details,  for 
seizing  at  once  upon  the  vital  point  and  discard- 
ing the  trivial ;  for  discerning  every  bearing  of 
a  question  and  weighing  it  judicially;  for  bal- 
ancing evidence  against  evidence  with  the  skill 
of  a  prestidigitator;  for  demolishing  a  theory 
with  a  word  and  establishing  a  new  one  with 
another ;  for  dealing  with  intricate  motives  and 
complex  emotions.  To  him  the  human  heart  and 
the  immortal  soul  of  man  were,  It  seemed,  but 
maps  and  diagrams  laid  before  him  In  red-limned 
nakedness.  Heredity,  environment,  the  acci- 
dents of  formative  Influences  were  no  longer 
mysteries  to  him,  but  were  the  very  implements 
of  his  craft.  It  was  not  strange,  then,  that 
men  feared  him ;  that  the  criminal  classes,  while 


80  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

they  sought  him,  quailed  before  him;  that  even 
his  own  clients,  whose  lives  he  saved,  trembled  in 
his  presence,  cowed  beneath  the  searching  of  his 
eyes,  and  felt  the  probing  of  his  silver  tongue 
in  their  very  hearts  to  be  a  punishment  little 
less  insufferable  than  the  condemning  sentence 
of  a  judge.  Among  his  fellows  of  the  bar, 
Woolford  was  not  popular.  He  was  too  unso- 
ciable to  be  liked.  He  was  aloof,  distant,  iso- 
lated ;  a  glacial  mountain  towering  in  chill  lofti- 
ness above  the  mere  rotundities  of  his  sur- 
roundings. 

Henry  and  his  sister  lived  quietly,  almost  in 
seclusion.  They  were  fond  of  each  other,  and 
cared  more  for  each  other's  company  than  for 
the  pleasures  of  society.  He  took  his  sister  into 
his  confidence ;  discussed  with  her  the  deep  prob- 
lems of  human  frailty  that  were  his  study  and 
his  recreation;  and  with  her  help  prepared  his 
cases  for  trial.  They  were  deep  in  the  intrica- 
cies of  the  strangling  case,  when  Drake  was 
ushered  into  the  library,  that  chill  November 
evening. 

"  From  the  Record?  "  said  Woolford.  "  This 
is  my  sister,  Mr.  Drake." 

In  the  faint  warm  glow  of  the  firelight  the 
reporter  saw  a  girl  of  perhaps  twenty  years, 
in  a  flowing  house-gown  of  white,  with  a  wealth 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN?  21 

of  hair  of  the  colour  of  burnished  bronze,  with 
half-lights  flashing  from  their  curves  and  coils ; 
he  saw  that  her  cheeks  glowed;  that  her  eyes 
were  dark,  large,  shining,  frankly  meeting  his 
own  swift  look. 

The  girl  started  to  move  away  from  the  table. 

"  You  needn't  go,  Marcia,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  That  is — you  want  to  talk  about  the  stran- 
glings,  perhaps?  " 

"  Yes,"  Drake  answered. 

"  Then  stay,  please,  Marcia.  My  sister," 
turning  again  toward  Drake,  "  assists  me  in  all 
my  cases." 


CHAPTER  III 

As  the  strong  man  exults  in  his  physical  ability,  de- 
lighting in  such  exercises  as  call  his  muscles  into  action, 
so  glories  the  analyst  in  that  moral  activity  which  dis- 
entangles. 

— Edoae  Allan  Poe. 

WooLFORD  plunged  at  once  into  the  interview. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  he  said,  "  because  I 
want  the  Record  to  publish  the  facts  in  these 
strangling  cases.  There  is  a  mystery  in  them 
that  has  led  the  newspapers  to  print  all  sorts  of 
wild,  impossible,  and  idiotic  theories  in  their 
efforts  to  outdo  one  another,  and  to  furnish  sen- 
sational reading  for  the  public." 

*'  The  city  editor  tells  me  you  have  refused  to 
be  interviewed,"  answered  Drake,  a  little  nettled 
by  the  lawyer's  words. 

"  That's  true.  I  don't  try  my  cases  in  the 
newspapers.  Nevertheless,  in  this  instance  I 
have  a  mind  to  set  you  right,  for  the  reason 
that  these  columns  of  idle  conjecture  and  mis- 
chievous confusion  keep  the  community  stirred 
up,  and  do  a  great  injustice  to  my  client, 
Therdier." 

"  The  Record  is  eager  to  publish  everything 
22 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  23 

you  will  say,"  said  Drake.  "  It  has  already 
printed  fully  the  police  side  of  the  case." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  I  most  complain  of," 
responded  Wool  ford.  "  The  police !  What  do 
they  know  of  the  science  of  crime !  But  the 
newspapers  I  had  thought  more  intelligent  and 
discriminating."  He  paused  as  if  preparing  his 
thoughts  for  utterance,  paying  little  attention 
to  the  man  before  him,  who  concealed  with  diffi- 
culty hi-s  disagreeable  impression;  then,  with  a 
sweeping  gesture,  he  pointed  to  an  oaken  cab- 
inet standing  in  a  recess  near  the  fireplace. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  is  a  cabinet,  divided  into 
twelve  compartments  for  as  many  classes  of  doc- 
uments. These  papers  here,  on  the  table,  are  the 
answer  in  a  case  being  prepared  for  trial;  and 
from  that  fact  I  know  that  they  belong  in  a  cer- 
tain one  of  those  compartments.  That  is  simple 
enough,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Drake,  impressed  not 
so  much  by  the  lawyer's  words  as  by  his  manner, 
which  was  peculiarly  positive  and  significant. 

"  Well,  you  can  classify  all  crimes  as  easily. 
First  strip  them  of  the  impossible,  then  examine 
the  known  facts ;  and  you  know  the  kind  of  crim- 
inal that  did  the  work  in  every  case." 

"  In  every  case.^*  Can  you  analyse  these 
strangling  cases  in  that  way.''"  asked  Drake. 


24  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

*'  It  is  possible  to  analyse  every  crime  in  that 
way.  But  I  am  not  through  with  the  illustra- 
tion. My  office  boy  can  place  properly  nine  of 
these  twelve  classes  of  papers,  because  to  do  it 
requires  only  the  ability  to  read.  The  remain- 
ing three  I  must  study  over,  else  I  may  put  them 
in  the  wrong  compartments.  So  we  may  sepa- 
rate crimes  into  two  general  classes — the  ordi- 
nary and  the  extraordinary.  Nine  out  of  twelve 
crimes  are  ordinary.  Leave  them  to  the  police, 
and  the  probability  is  that  the  dullest  patrolmen 
will  stumble  upon  the  criminal ;  for  the  luckless 
culprits  unconsciously  will  be  doing  their  ut- 
most to  assist  in  their  own  capture." 

"  And  the  other  three  ?  "  said  Drake. 

"  They  are  beyond  the  powers  of  the  police. 
They  are  the  extraordinary.  It  is  to  this  class 
that  these  cases  belong.  Have  you  ever  seen 
Therdier.?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  talked  with  him." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  did  you  take  him  to 
be?  " 

"  An  ordinary  Frenchman,  unscrupulous — 
cruel." 

"  You  are  right.  He  is  an  ordinary  French- 
man, and  probably  is  capable  of  an  ordinary 
crime ;  but  that  he  could  be  the  strangler  is  im- 
possible.    Look  at  these  crimes !   The  motive  is 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  25 

concealed;  the  audacity  of  the  criminal  amazes 
yon;  the  apparent  contempt  for  human  life  ap- 
pals you;  and,  as  you  go  deeper  into  the  mys- 
tery, facts  are  revealed  that  confound  you. 
These  murders  were  committed  at  an  hour  when 
the  French  Quarter  was  thronged  with  people. 
The  women  lay  not  ten  feet  from  a  street 
crowded  with  passers-by.  One  outcry — one  mis- 
calculation on  his  part,  even  in  the  smallest  de- 
tail of  his  work,  would  have  betrayed  him.  It 
was  as  if  an  invisible  hand  had  smitten  the  very 
heart  of  the  Quarter,  and  taken  a  life.  The 
assassin  left  but  one  clue;  and  that  marked  the 
crime  as  extraordinary,  proved  that  Therdier 
was  innocent,  and  told  even  more  plainly  than  a 
photograph  could,  the  character  of  the  stran- 
gler.    This  clue  the  police  passed  by  unnoticed." 

The  lawyer  spoke  with  calmness  and  delibera- 
tion. His  words,  manner,  and  voice  fascinated 
Drake,  at  the  same  time  mystified  him.  As 
often  as  he  had  tried  to  take  his  eyes  off  Wool- 
ford's  face,  to  look  at  the  lawyer's  sister,  his 
gaze  had  been  drawn  back  by  the  strange  mag- 
netism in  the  man. 

"  In  the  meantime,"  Woolford  continued, 
"  the  pohce  are  preparing  a  surprise  for  us. 
In  an  ordinary  case,  it  would  not  be  bad ;  but  in 
this — why,  I'll  show  you  how  much  I  think  of 


26  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

il  by  revealing  the  whole  secret  to  you.  What 
do  you  think  of  an  eye-witness — actually,  an 
eye-witness  ?    Ha !  " 

Woolford  laughed. 

"  The  eye-witness  is  a  negro  boy,  twenty 
years  old,  ignorant,  simple-minded.  He  will  say 
he  passed  the  Therdier  window  at  ten  o'clock 
the  night  of  the  murder ;  he  heard  voices  and  the 
sound  of  a  struggle;  he  looked  in,  and  saw 
Therdier,  with  one  hand  clasped  around  the 
woman's  throat,  dragging  her  toward  the  door 
leading  into  the  second  room.  He  will  say  that 
for  a  whole  month  he  was  too  frightened  to  tell 
anything  about  what  he  had  seen;  that  finally 
he  confided  to  his  mother;  that  she  told  other 
negro  women ;  that  she  and  they  at  last  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  go  to  the  police  with  his 
story.  Well,  the  boy  is  a  liar!  The  negro  is 
naturally  superstitious.  His  mind  is  open  to 
suggestions.  He  sups  full  with  horrors  and 
rather  likes  the  feast.  Under  the  influence  of 
terror,  such  as  spread  over  the  neighbourhood 
of  Therdier's  place — terror  that  grew  with  the 
repetitions  of  the  fiendish  deeds — the  negro 
brain  was  tortured  by  illusions  and  hallucina- 
tions which,  with  long  and  careful  nursing,  have 
grown  to  the  dignity  of  facts.  The  boy  did 
not  see  Therdier  kill  the  woman — could  not  have 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  27 

seen  him  kill  her,  because  Therdier  is  not  the 
strangler !  Every  particle  of  testimony  that 
will  be  introduced  against  Therdier  will  help  to 
acquit  him.  The  prosecution  will  assume  that 
this  is  an  ordinary  murder.  The  common,  pal- 
try motive — the  sordid  quarrel — the  coarse, 
common  character  of  the  man  whom  they 
accuse — why,  all  these  things  are  essential  ele- 
ments of  the  ordinary  crime  of  murder." 

A  faint  smile  passed  over  Woolford's  lips,  and 
he  shot  a  significant  glance  at  Marcia,  who  sat 
silent  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  Then  he 
went  on: 

"  I'll  give  you  a  peep  into  the  case  of  the  de- 
fence. Do  you  know  that  after  each  of  these 
three  women  was  strangled,  a  bunch  of  red  car- 
nations was  found  lying  by  the  side  of  her  body? 
You  had  not  heard  of  that,  had  you.'*  Ask  the 
detectives.  Perhaps  they  will  recall  the  circum- 
stance ;  and  if  they  do,  they'll  say,  *  Yes,  there 
were  some  flowers  there,  but  have  you  heard  of 
our  latest  discovery  in  Therdier's  record .'' '  And 
they'll  think  no  more  about  the  carnations. 
Why,  right  there  is  the  material  for  Therdier's 
acquittal — those  three  bunches  of  red  carna- 
tions, exactly  alike,  peculiarly  tied  with  similar 
strings. 

"  Would  Therdier  lay  red  carnations  at  the 


28  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

side  of  his  victims?  He  never  bought  a  red  car- 
nation in  his  life.  Furthermore,  I  challenge  you 
to  go  to-night  and  find  me  a  single  red  carna- 
tion in  the  whole  French  colony.  Why,  red  pop- 
pies, thrice  distilled,  couldn't  put  a  man  to  sleep 
quicker  than  those  flowers  will  smother  all  the 
theories  of  the  prosecution  in  this  case.  No, 
sir,"  he  continued,  as  he  settled  himself  back  in 
his  chair ;  "  it  will  be  plain  that  an  extraordi- 
nary criminal,  from  a  strange  and  possibly  in- 
sane motive,  deliberately  planned  these  crimes. 
We'll  show  how  an  exceptional  person,  for  an 
extraordinary  reason,  killed  these  women,  and 
left  them  lying  cold  in  death  with  blue  marks  on 
their  white  throats,  their  tongues  swollen  and 
protruding,  a  fading  look  of  horror  on  their 
fixed  faces — and  red  carnations,  fresh,  pecu- 
liarly tied,  carefully  placed  by  their  sides. 
That's  my  case.  You  wonder,  perhaps,  that  I 
speak  so  frankly.  Why,  no  court  will  convict 
Therdier.  As  for  the  police.''  Bah!  They  do 
not  attain  to  the  importance  even  of  a  good 
joke." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Dark-veiled  Cotytto,  to  whom  the  secret  flame 
Of  midnight  torches  burns;  mysterious  dame, 
That  ne'er  art  called,  but  when  the  dragon  womb 
Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest  gloom. 
And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air. 

— Milton's  Comus. 

If  you  will  leave  behind  you  the  gathered, 
garish  lights  of  Sixteenth  Street,  and  over  your 
left  shoulder  keep  the  owl-like  face  of  the  Union 
Depot  clock;  if  you  will  walk  far  enough,  be- 
yond the  last  bright  show-window,  beyond  the 
pawnshops,  beyond  Isaac's  second-hand  store, 
and  beyond  the  Mansion  Stables,  you  shall 
come  at  length  to  the  shadow-line  where  respec- 
tability, long  hesitating,  halts ;  where  commerce 
takes  the  taint  of  infamy;  where  leering  vice 
unveils,  and  reaches  out  a  leprous  hand  to  vir- 
tue gone  astray. 

Here  is  The  Place  of  Banished  Things.  Here 
you  shall  find,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  look, 
banished  weakness,  banished  sin,  and  banished 
ugliness;  banished  sights  and  sounds  and 
odours ;  banished  old  pianos  that  lament  in 
tinny  tones  their  fall  from  pleasant  places ;  ban- 
29 


30  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

ished  violins  that  pule  on  in  mended  misery; 
banished  songs  that  lost  their  freshness  long 
ago;  banished  oak  and  tinsel;  banished  histories, 
and  banished  memories;  banished  men  and  wo- 
men, all  quite  cast  away.  Banished  things  of 
every  kind  have  gathered  herewith  some  strange 
instinct  of  segregation,  like  that  which  makes 
a  gruesome  colony  of  cripples  and  like  that 
which  lays  the  boundaries  of  the  fastidious 
Hill.  The  very  atmosphere,  having  yielded  up 
its  oxj'gen  and  become  satiate  with  refuse  and 
miasma,  might  seem  to  have  been  banished  to 
this  place  for  ever,  so  foul  and  alien  is  it,  so 
different  from  the  air  this  side  the  shadow-line. 

Here  are  no  half-tones,  no  nuances  of  sound 
and  colour.  When  the  bold  lights  go  out,  they 
go  out  in  darkness  that  plausibly  has  weight 
and  measure;  and  when  the  strident  noises 
cease,  they  yield  to  a  tingling  silentness.  Not 
a  minor  chord  is  heard.  The  voice  of  the 
place  is  high  and  shrill.  Not  a  touch  of  gentle 
colour  can  be  seen.  All  is  black  and  red  and 
white; — black  for  the  background  of  the 
noisome  street;  red  on  the  lamps  and  the  door- 
ways ;  white  in  splashes  here  and  there — the 
ghosts  of  women. 

Down  this  thoroughfare  and  back  a  motley 
rabble  jolts  and  staggers,  for  the  sidewalks  are 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  31 

rough  and  treacherous,  and  the  spirit  of  un- 
steadiness is  in  the  very  air.  The  gutter  is 
filled  with  filth ;  the  street  is  unpaved,  neglected, 
strewn  with  trash.  At  intervals  the  wheels  of 
a  night-hawlc  cab  rattle  over  tin  cans,  and 
sink  deep  into  heaps  of  rubbish.  Doors  slam 
viciously,  and  drunken  men  stumble  out  into 
the  night  with  their  fumbling  hands  upon  their 
pockets.  Through  the  scene  runs  the  whole 
gamut  of  vice,  from  Bacchanalian  levity  to 
soulless,  calculating  sin.  The  sober  imagina- 
tion, infected  with  the  exhalations  of  the  gut- 
ter and  fed  upon  the  heavy  horrors  of  chiaros- 
curo, might  sanely  people  the  picture  with 
monsters  and  with  monsters'  progeny.  Here  a 
shutter  hisses,  as  if  it  contained  a  Medusa's 
head;  yonder  the  faces  of  a  hydra  smile  out  of 
the  contorted  night;  everywhere  chimeras  dire 
start  capering  from  the  shadows.  It  is  all  like 
"  a  phantasma  and  a  hideous  dream." 

Around  this  place  of  banished  things,  the 
electric  spirits  of  exposure  have  thrown  a  noose 
of  light,  as  if  to  hold  the  pestilential  blot  in 
its  allotted  place.  It  is  left  in  central  gloom, 
like  the  black  spot  beneath  an  arc-lamp,  while 
a  radiant  circle  beats  upon  the  sky.  Surely 
the  foul  fiend's  votaries,  like  some  red-robed, 
fallen  Richelieu,  know  how  to  draw  a  magic 


32  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

ring  inside  which  their  persons  are  immune  and 
their  power  is  supreme.  Civic  virtue,  imper- 
sonated by  an  oblivious  policeman,  swings  its 
idle  club,  and  muses  on  the  inherent  wickedness 
of  man ;  a  little  Baptist  mission  around  the 
corner  chants  faint  hymns,  and  closes  early ; 
and  a  block  away  the  street-cars  convoy  the 
smug  and  respectable  citizens  toward  their 
homes.  And  though  faces  disappear,  and 
pianos  in  time  go  to  the  junk-pile,  and  violins 
get  broken  in  the  middle  of  a  tune,  still  will 
new  faces  and  new  instruments  take  their 
places;  for  decrees  of  banishment  are  issued 
every  day  in  the  convenient  way  society  has  of 
eliminating  the  weak  and  the  ugly  and  the  old. 

Into  this  place  came  Drake  and  Murphy,  ac- 
cording to  agreement.  It  was  nearly  mid- 
night when  they  approached  the  French  Quar- 
ter. 

**  Denver's  slums  don't  cover  a  lot  of  terri- 
tory," said  Murphy,  "  but  just  tell  me  where — 
outside  of  Whitechapel — they've  ever  had  such 
murders  as  our  triple  strangling !  Now  that 
you  are  here,  I  suppose  you'll  want  to  meet 
some  of  these  people,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Drake,  "  I  want  to  follow 
up  the  tips  Woolford  gave  me — the  carnations 
and  the  story  of  the  negro  boy." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  33 

"  I  hardly  think  the  latter  is  on  my  list  of 
acquaintances,"  returned  Murphy,  smilingly, 
"  but  I'll  introduce  you  to  some  of  Therdier's 
friends." 

The  houses  they  were  passing,  as  they  walked 
down  the  street,  were  of  two  classes  in  appear- 
ance. They  may  be  assorted,  in  a  general 
way,  as  large  and  small,  pretentious  and 
shabby,  all  strung  together  without  uniformity 
of  design.  Presently,  Murphy  stopped  in 
front  of  a  building  that,  both  in  its  architec- 
ture and  in  its  pretension  to  exclusiveness,  com- 
pletely dwarfed,  with  its  magnificence,  the 
squat  houses  on  either  side.  It  was  built  of  cut 
stone  with  profuse  ornamentation,  and  con- 
trasted boldly  with  the  houses  around  it,  all 
built  of  red  brick,  long  since  begun  to  crumble. 
The  windows  of  this  edifice  were  closed  and 
heavily  curtained.  The  plate  glass  of  the 
oaken  door  was  draped  on  the  inside  with  crim- 
son silk,  which  let  a  red  flood  of  light  into  the 
street.     This  was  the  French  Club. 

"  Here  we  are !  "  announced  Murphy,  cheer- 
fully, and  then,  with  the  easy  certainty  of 
familiarity,  pulled  the  bell. 

The  door  was  quickly  opened.  A  negro  ser- 
vant in  livery  bowed  them  in.  A  brilliantly 
lighted   hallway    extended   through   the   house, 


84  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

and  about  midway  of  it  a  broad  staircase  led 
to  the  floor  above.  The  hall  and  stairs  were 
carpeted  in  a  deep  rich  red,  and  the  walls  were 
frescoed  in  gaudy  variations  of  the  same  bright 
hue.  Everywhere  were  incandescent  lamps ; 
the  place  was  all  afire  with  colour.  Mirrors 
multiplied  the  figures  of  many  men  talking  in 
little  groups.  Interlacing  all  the  noises  was 
the  incessant  clicking  of  the  chips  and  the 
monotonous  call  of  a  croupier. 

Drake  followed  Murphy  to  where  the  most 
insistent  sounds  came  from.  A  long  room  was 
filled  with  gaming  apparatus ;  near  the  door 
was  a  roulette  wheel  around  which  half  a  dozen 
men  were  playing.  The  man  in  charge  nodded 
pleasantly  to  Murphy.  After  watching  the 
ball  roll  a  dozen  times  or  more,  Murphy  crossed 
to  where  the  faro  layout  and  poker  tables  were 
surrounded  by  players.  The  room  contained 
perhaps  two  score  of  men,  all  equalised  by  the 
gambling  mania  and  sufficient  money  to  gratify 
it.  Some  of  them,  polished,  pale-faced,  were 
in  evening  dress;  others  wore  the  incoherent 
and  somewhat  egregious  garb  that  proclaimed 
them  to  be  mine-owners,  down  from  the  moun- 
tains for  recreation.  One  or  two  more,  in 
coarser  clothing,  were  evidently  prospectors 
who   had   recently   sold   their   mining-claims — 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  35 

eagerly  ridding  themselves  of  their  too  sudden 
wealth.  A  few  typical  gamblers  rounded  out 
the  assemblage.  The  people  playing  were  of 
varied  nationality,  American  for  the  most  part. 
Those  in  charge  of  the'  games  were  all  French- 
men, watching  with  keen  eyes  and  speaking 
with  quiet  courtesy,  without  noise  or  agitation. 
Such  slight  noise  as  there  was  came  from  the 
players  and  from  the  other  persons  scattered 
through  the  house.  Men  were  constantly 
coming  and  going;  servants  busied  themselves 
here  and  there  for  the  comfort  of  the  guests. 
Above  all,  the  clicking  of  the  chips — the  monot- 
onous calling  of  the  roulette  man — "  Two 
black!"  "Thirty-six  red!"  "Double  O!"  as 
the  ball  rolled. 

After  wandering  idly  about,  greeting  a  few 
acquaintances,  Murphy  wrote  something  on  a 
card  and  handed  it  to  a  servant.  Presently 
the  man  returned  and,  bidding  them  to  follow 
him,  passed  through  a  side  door  leading  to  a 
separate  part  of  the  building,  mounted  a  flight 
of  stairs,  touched  an  electric  bell,  and  left 
them. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  up  to  now, 
Murphy.? "  inquired  Drake,  as  obediently  he 
followed  his  friend. 

"  Introduce    you    to    the    most    fascinating 


36  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

woman  in  Denver,*'  whispered  Murphy.    "  Just 
you  wait !  " 

"  But  look  here !  Suppose  I  don't  want  to?  *' 
"  Remember  the  old  saying,  my  boy,"  ex- 
claimed Murphy,  "  '  Cherchez  la  femme! '  She 
can  help  you  if  any  one  can — and  if  ever  a 
femme  belies  the  reputation  of  her  sex  and  can 
keep  her  mouth  shut,  she's  the  lady.  Hush! 
some  one  is  coming !  " 


CHAPTER  V 

In  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 
In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands. 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom. 
And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands. 

— Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Old  nature,  commonly  so  true  to  her  own  stern 
laws,  loathing  prodigies  and  hating  paradoxes, 
now  and  then  delights  in  a  riotous  thauma- 
turgy.  She  plants  the  edelweiss  in  cold  cran- 
nies of  Alpine  rocks;  she  hangs  her  rarest 
orchids  amid  the  poisons  and  the  fumes  of 
antipodean  jungles;  and  she  administers  a 
rebuke  to  pride  when  she  rears  a  lily  out  of 
excrement  and  glorifies  a  dunghill  with  a  violet 
crown. 

Nature  seemed  to  sanction  vice  and  to  suffer 
violation  when  she  allowed  Elise  Du  Vivier  to 
bloom  in  the  noxious  atmosphere  of  the  Ther- 
dier  establishment.  And,  as  if  in  defiance  of 
all  reason,  and  in  scorn  of  all  tradition,  she  had 
grown  into  full  and  sensuous  beauty.  How  well 
this  exotic  flower  would  have  endured  the  test 
of  more  orderly  conditions — of  contrast  with 
normal  womanhood — need  never  be  conjectured. 
87 


38  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Elise  was  seldom  seen  outside  her  own  sump- 
tuous surroundings.  From  somewhere  she  had 
inherited  a  spirit  and,  more  than  that,  an  art 
which  had  been  no  more  subdued  than  her  good 
looks  had  been  by  the  strange  conditions  of  her 
life-  All  the  graces  of  coquetry  and  plenary 
powers  of  fascination  were  her  especial  heritage 
from  the  gods. 

Elise  was  neither  large  nor  small,  as  stand- 
ards go,  but  was  of  that  medium  height  which, 
as  the  mood  may  urge,  permits  of  queenly  dig- 
nity or  kitten  playfulness.  She  was  exquisitely 
moulded ;  every  movement  of  her  lithe  body  was 
the  embodiment  of  languid  grace;  every  pore 
of  her  soft,  white  skin  breathed  warm,  volup- 
tuous life.  Her  face  was  a  perfect  oval;  her 
lips  were  cherry-ripe;  her  cheeks  laughed  rouge 
to  scorn.  The  most  innocent  little  dimple  in 
the  world,  just  away  from  the  left  corner  of 
her  mouth,  pleaded  for  admiration.  Around 
the  pink  and  white  perfections  of  her  face  was 
draped  a  veritable  silken  canopy  of  jet-black 
hair,  brushed  up  and  away  from  her  forehead. 
Her  eyes,  to  complete  the  picture,  were  large 
and  violet,  with  limpid  deeps  where  slow  fires 
fumed  uneasily ;  and  they  were  shadowed  by 
dark  lashes  that,  when  she  let  them  droop, 
seemed  to  sweep  her  cheeks. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  39 

EUse  lived  in  luxury.  All  the  physical  in- 
dulgence, all  the  sensuous  comforts  that  money 
could  command,  were  hers.  Costly  apparel, — 
which  is,  after  all,  the  final  consolation — the 
dream  of  undiverted  women, — she  possessed  in 
extravagant  variety,  and  wore  with  wasteful 
and  capricious  skill. 

The  protegee  of  Jacques  Therdier  wanted  for 
nothing.  A  man  of  refined  taste  himself,  it 
pleased  him  to  see  her  always  adorned;  it  satis- 
fied the  inherent  business  qualities  of  the  gam- 
bler, well  aware  of  the  part  her  equipment  must 
play,  as  assistant  to  his  schemes.  He  knew,  as 
well  as  she,  the  potency  of  a  becoming  gown,  the 
subtle  influence  of  rustling  silk,  the  charm  that 
a  half-hidden  bit  of  lace  exerts  upon  the  senses. 
All  these  airy  accessories  the  woman  managed 
with  fine  abandon,  or  with  amazing  modesty,  to 
suit  the  occasion  and  the  mood. 

When  Drake  and  Murphy  were  ushered  in 
by  the  maid,  Elise  was  snugly  settled  down 
among  the  pillows  of  a  divan.  She  was  lightly 
and  brightly  arrayed  in  green  and  scarlet — 
soft  silken  garments  that  clung  to  her  undulous 
figure  as  if  they  loved  to  embrace  her.  She 
had  a  red  rose  in  her  hair,  and  her  eyes  shone 
as  if  the  merry  fires  of  a  carnival  were  newly 
lighted  in  them. 


40  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Murphy!  Coquin!  "  she  ex- 
claimed, half  rising  from  her  lounging  position, 
and  coquettishly  pointing  her  finger  at  him. 
*'  You  are  no  good,  as  you  Americans  say.  Did 
I  not  listen  patiently  to  your  new  system — did 
you  not  go  down  to  try  it,  promising  to  re- 
turn and  tell  me  the  wonderful  result?  En 
fn  de  compte,  you  never  came  back,  and  I 
waited  for  you." 

"  Oh,  it  didn't  work,'*  answered  Murphy, 
sheepishly.  "  You  needn't  make  fun  of  that 
system,  though — it's  all  right.  I  was  twenty 
dollars  ahead  once  before  I  went  broke;  but  I 
say,  here's  another  newspaper  man — a  friend 
of  mine.  He's  very  anxious  to  meet  you, 
Mam'selle  Elise,  and  a  right  good  sort  he  is, 
too." 

Elise  reached  out  a  jewelled  little  hand  and 
clasped  Drake's  warmly.  Then,  with  an  in- 
viting movement,  she  flipped  her  flimsy  skirts 
aside  to  make  room  for  him  beside  her,  show- 
ing her  dainty  slippered  foot  and  a  bit  of  black 
silk  stocking. 

"  So  you  are  a  newspaper  man,  are  you  ?  '* 
she  exclaimed.  "  You  don't  play  a  system,  I 
hope?  Now,  Monsieur  Murphy  would  be  quite 
interesting  if  he  would  talk  of  something  be- 
sides systems,  murders,  and  the  morgue.     By 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  41 

the  way,"  she  said  suddenly  to  Murphy,  with 
a  mock  seriousness  in  the  shaking  of  her  pretty 
head,  "  I  have  a  friend  who  is  looking  for  you. 
I  taught  him  that  last  system  of  yours." 

"  Oh,  you  did,  did  you  ?  "  retorted  Murphy, 
with  scorn.  "  Well,  he  didn't  play  it  right,  or 
he  wouldn't  have  lost.  I  suppose  that's  the 
trouble  with  him,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Elise,  who  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  Murphy's  discomfiture.  *'  I  told  him 
to  increase  every  bet,  the  same  ratio,  and  stick 
to  sixteen,  seventeen,  and  eighteen ;  and  while 
he  might  lose  for  a  long  time,"  she  went  on, 
smilingly,  "  when  he  did  win,  it  would  only  take 
a  few  bets  to  make  him  even." 

"Well,  did  he?"  inquired  Murphy,  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  Oh,  he  stuck  to  it,  all  right — played  until 
he  lost  five  hundred  dollars  without  winning  a 
bet ;  then  he  quit  in  disgust.  Apres! — the  very 
next  roll,  the  ball  dropped  into  seventeen."  She 
uttered  a  little  shriek  of  merriment  at  the  recol- 
lection. 

"  Of  course ! "  exclaimed  Murphy,  in  deep 
disgust.  "  He  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  stay 
with  it." 

"  C'est  fa!  Just  what  I  told  him,"  assented 
Elise,  "  and  so  he  went  back  and  tried  it  again. 


42  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

He  lost  another  five  hundred  straight,  and 
swore  he  would  kill  the  man  who  invented  the 
system.  Helas!  he  hadn't  got  to  the  door  to 
hunt  you  out  when  the  dealer  called,  *  Seventeen 
r-e-d ! ' '  And  as  he  slammed  the  door,  again 
the  voice  of  the  dealer  floated  out  into  the  hall, 
*  Repeater !     Seventeen  r-e-d ! '  " 

"  What  did  I  tell  you ! "  declared  Murphy, 
excitedly.  "  You've  got  to  have  nerve.  Now, 
if  he  had  stuck  to  the  system  and  continued  on 
the  seventeen,  it  would  have  put  him  ahead  of 
the  game;  but,  Allan,  old  man,  I'll  leave  you 
with  Mam'selle  Elise — take  that  five  you  lent 
me,  and  try  my  luck." 

Murphy  went  downstairs  whistling  a  ragged 
bar  of  the  last  popular  song.  Drake  and  Elise 
watched  him,  highly  diverted  by  the  man's  abso- 
lute faith  in  his  system. 

"  You  have  not  been  down  here  before," 
began  Elise,  leaning  forward  with  one  hand 
supporting  her  chin  and  looking  upward  into 
Drake's  serious  face. 

"  No,"  answered  Drake,  earnestly,  "  though 
I've  often  wanted  to  meet  you.   I've  heard " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  EUse,  and  added,  a  trifle 
bitterly,  "  A  protegee  of  Jacques  Therdier  is 
apt  to  be  discussed.  Qu'importe!  What  do 
they  say  of  Elise.?  " 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  43 

*'  It  was  Murphy,"  replied  Drake,  "  who  told 
me  about  you.  He  gave  you  the  highest  praise 
known  in  his  vocabulary,  and  if  you  know 
Murphy,  you  should  appreciate  that." 

Elise  laughed  lightly,  and  then  more  soberly 
said :  "  Well,  Monsieur  Murphy  is  all  right. 
Anyhow,  I  like  him.  He  is  good-hearted,  malin, 
understands  things,  and  is  a  lot  better  than 
most  of  the  men  I  meet." 

"  Yet  you  see  some  of  the  best  men  in  town, 
don't  you.'' "  And,  watching  her  curiously, 
*'  Therdier  has  the  reputation  of  being  square." 

"  Certainement,  plenty  of  prominent  men 
come  here.  Lawyers, — lots  of  them, — doctors, 
and  business  men,"  Elise  rejoined,  naively. 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  "  That's  all  very  well ;  but 
play  brings  out  the  worst  that  is  in  them." 
She  uttered  this  bit  of  ancient  wisdom  with  a 
decisive  nod  of  her  head  to  emphasise  her  words. 
*'  It  doesn't  take  long  to  discover  their  special 
weaknesses  and  vanities.  I  have  a  fair  idea  of 
them  to  start  with,  and  know  how  to  manage 
most  of  them." 

"  But,"  protested  Drake,  hesitatingly,  not 
wishing  to  be  presumptuous,  "  why,  then,  do 
you  live  in  a  place  like  this — a  gambling- 
house  ?  " 

"  Et,  pourquoi  pas?  "  answered  Elise,  with 


44  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

a  change  of  expression  and  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders.  "  Women  love  luxury,  beautiful 
gowns,  and  flatter^' — ^you  ought  to  know  that 
well  enough.  Well,  I  have  them  all  here.  Qui, 
tout."  She  cast  a  sweeping,  satisfied  glance 
at  herself  and  surroundings,  and  settled  herself 
comfortably  among  the  pillows.  Suddenly  her 
mood  changed ;  she  grew  contemplative,  serious. 
"  I  hardly  know  why  I  should,"  she  went  on 
rather  sadly ;  "  but  I'll  tell  you  about  myself. 
I  was  born  in  France.  My  mother  was  a 
Frenchwoman — an  actress.  My  father — an 
Italian  nobleman.  After  a  year  he  deserted 
her  and  returned  to  Italy,  and  soon  after  she 
died  in  abject  poverty.  Jacques  Therdier,  a 
distant  connection  of  hers,  adopted  me.  He 
ran  a  gambling-house  then  as  now,  and  as  I 
grew  older  I  became  valuable  to  him.  Men 
said  I  was  beautiful — raved  over  me — came 
there — lost  their  money.  I  had  offers  of  mar- 
riage from  a  lot  of  foolish  men — could  even 
have  been  a  countess."  This  Elise  emphasised 
with  a  prideful  lift  of  her  little  head,  and  coyly 
waited  until  she  considered  her  visitor  was  suffi- 
ciently impressed;  then  resumed  in  a  subdued 
tone :  "  One  night  a  wealthy  young  man,  fou 
de  moi, — in  love  with  me, — shot  himself  in  our 
rooms  because  I  would  not  marry  him.      His 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  45 

father  was  a — how  shall  I  say  it? — a  big  man 
in  France,  and  we  were  forced  to  fly  from  Paris. 
We  went  to  London.  The  authorities  drove 
Therdier  from  there.  We  came  to  New  York, 
and  finally  to  Denver,  because  Therdier  had 
heard  of  the  fabulous  sums  hazarded  at  play 
by  rich  mine-owners.     Voila!  " 

Drake  was  looking  at  her  in  fascinated  si- 
lence. He  even  forgot  to  mention  the  subject 
foremost  in  his  mind — the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  Allans!  Monsieur  Drake,  never  mind  me." 
Elise  rose  and  crossed  the  room  with  easy,  list- 
less grace.  On  a  table  were  some  roses,  and, 
stopping  to  arrange  them,  she  said  with  anima- 
tion: 

"  Why  not  go  for  our  friend,  the  amusing 
Monsieur  Murphy?  Bring  him  up  here  and 
have  a  little  supper  with  me." 

Drake  was  about  to  protest,  but  Elise,  with 
an  airy,  insisting  wave  of  the  hand,  would  not 
listen  to  him.  After  he  had  gone  she  seated 
herself,  her  head  in  her  hands,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  and  remained  for  some  time  in  deep 
thought.  A  strange  look  of  sadness,  weariness, 
was  on  the  beautiful  face.  Something  about 
Drake  attracted  her;  he  was  different  from 
most  men  that  she  had  met.  The  entire  absence 
of  any  flattery  or  devotion  in  his  manner  was 


46  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

a  novelty.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  here  was 
a  man  that  could  be  a  friend,  not  in  the  sub- 
meaning  of  the  word,  but  in  its  highest  sense. 
Lovers  were  plenty — always  at  her  feet.  They 
bored  her,  A  friend  she  longed  for.  Quickly 
arousing  herself  from  her  revery,  she  touched 
a  bell ;  a  maid  entered. 

"  Christine !  "  she  ordered,  "  bring  in  here — 
serve  on  this  table — un  petit  souper.  There 
will  be  three  of  us." 

Drake  found  Murphy  on  the  point  of  placing 
his  last  dollar  on  the  zero — the  system  dis- 
carded. As  it  was  swept  away  by  the  insatiable 
rake,  Murphy,  blissful,  as  if  he  had  won  in- 
stead of  lost,  followed  Drake,  and  was  soon 
drinking  the  health  of  Elise  and  in  the  best  of 
spirits. 

Elise  presided  with  alternate  moods  of  play- 
fulness, dignity,  and  languor.  An  hour  later, 
as  they  walked  homeward,  Drake  silently  ac- 
quiesced in  Murphy's  exclamation: 

"  Isn't  she  a  dream !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

Ah!  but  a  juice  too  pure  hath  now  been  poured 
In  a  dark  and  ancient  wine;  and  the  cup  seethes. 

— Stephen  Phillips. 

"  Marcia  !  Do  please  come  and  eat  your 
dinner ! " 

The  old  servant  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
living-room  and  spoke  coaxingly,  yet  command- 
ingly,  with  an  ominous  shaking  of  her  fine  grey 
head  that  betokened  deep  solicitude  as  well  as 
subdued  protest  against  such  liberties  as  were 
being  taken  with  the  established  order  of  things 
in  the  Woolford  household. 

*'  Wait  just  a  little  longer,  MoUie,  and  if 
he  doesn't  come,  then  I'll  dine  alone." 

"  Dearie  me !  I  wouldn't  wait.  Seems  to  me 
he's  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself.  He's 
so  busy  these  days,  too;  doesn't  half  eat  when 
he  does  sit  down.  Just  like  his  father  there. 
He  forgot  to  eat  lots  of  times,  thinkin'  over 
them  law  cases.  That's  before  he  went  to  the 
war,  and " 

Mollie's  voice  died  away  into  the  regions  of 
overdone  roast  beef,  whither  she  went  to  preach 
47 


48  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

to  the  cook  the  Christian  virtues  of  patience 
and  humility. 

Henry  was  late  for  dinner — later  than  usual ; 
for  he  seldom  left  his  office  in  time  to  reach 
home  when  expected.  Marcia  sat  at  a  window 
that  commanded  a  view  of  the  street,  watching 
for  a  sight  of  her  brother's  tall  form  strid- 
ing homeward.  Darkness — a  quick  November 
gloom — had  long  since  night-robed  the  earth; 
a  dry  wind  tore  the  last  dead  leaves  from  the 
trees,  and  sent  them,  in  panic-stricken  multi- 
tudes, scurrying  up  the  avenue.  The  arc- 
lamps,  swaying  in  the  breeze  and  creaking  dole- 
fully, played  pale  rainbow- rings  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  pretended  thus  to  illuminate  the 
world.  There  is  something  egotistical  and 
petty,  like  the  absurd  garrulity  of  an  ignorant 
old  man,  in  the  sputtering  glare  of  an  arc- 
lamp.  The  sun,  moon,  and  stars  go  about  their 
lantern  business  with  large  indifference,  but 
the  best  lamp  ever  made  requires  that  it  be 
petted,  coaxed,  and  noticed  like  a  spoiled 
baby,  else  it  will  go  out  and  sulk  in  darkness 
till  some  tired  man  with  a  ladder  comes  to 
shake  it  back  into  usefulness  and  good  beha- 
viour. 

When  Henry  came  at  length,  it  was  with 
swift  and  nervous  step.     He  brought  with  him 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  49 

a  little  gust  of  chilling  wind  that  buffeted 
Marcia  as  she  hurried  to  meet  him.  She  saw 
that  his  face  was  paler  than  usual,  though  per- 
haps the  strong  light  in  the  hallway  heightened 
the  pallor.  His  manner,  ordinarily  serene,  was 
now  disturbed ;  his  eyes  burned  in  their  deep 
recesses,  like  the  fires  of  a  furnace  seen  far 
through  the  night;  and  Marcia,  filled  with  a 
vague  anxiety,  knew  somehow  that  her  dread 
was  not  unfounded;  that  her  brother  was  in 
one  of  those  strange  moods  of  his,  which 
troubled  her  more  than  she  had  dared  to  con- 
fess, even  to  her  inmost  self.  He  devoted  such 
mighty  efforts  to  his  cases  that  at  times  he 
seemed  to  live  in  them,  to  suffer  the  agonies  of 
the  accused ;  and  Marcia  feared,  because  of  the 
incessant  toil  involved  in  his  application  to 
these  tasks,  that  his  health  would  break  under 
the  strain. 

She  helped  him  to  remove  his  coat.  When 
she  spoke,  her  voice,  always  soft  and  low,  was 
caressing  in  its  melody,  and  gave  no  hint  of  the 
disquietude  she  felt.  Some  women's  voices — 
some  women's  very  presence — can  sweeten  and 
assuage,  like  certain  phases  of  a  symphony 
played  pianissimo  on  a  great  cathedral  organ. 
This  was  Marcia's  gift. 

"  Well,    little    girl,    it's    been    a    long    day. 


60  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Many  annoying  things  have  happened,  and  I'm 
tired,"  said  Woolford,  stroking  his  sister's 
forehead  affectionately.  "  We're  late  for  our 
dinner,  but  never  mind!  I'll  enjoy  your  sun- 
shine— sunshine  still  when  the  sun's  gone  down. 
Ah!  not  many  men  can  look  forward  to  that 
after  a  day  of  gloom.  It's  gloomy,  that's  what 
it  is,  Marcia,  this  living  to  save  the  lives  of 
fools.  What  is  it  that  Macbeth  says  ?  '  To- 
morrow, and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow ' — 
what's  that .'' — '  And  all  our  yesterdays  have 
lighted  fools  the  way  to  dusty  death.' — Come 
on !     Let  us  sit  down." 

"  You  study  too  hard,  Henry,"  Marcia 
remonstrated.  "  If  you  don't  rest,  you'll  be  ill. 
Indeed  you  will." 

"  Never  fear,  my  dear,"  responded  Henry,  a 
tender  light  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he  looked 
into  her  upturned  face.  "  Never  fear.  These 
moods  of  mine  don't  come  from  overwork. 
Work !  Why,  these  cases  are  mere  child's  play. 
And  yet  they  call  it  work — these  lawyers  who 
plod  along,  wrapped  in  their  self-conceit. 
Why,  Marcia,  sometimes  a  wild  notion  strikes 
me  to  give  up  my  profession  and  live  henceforth 
apart  from  men — a  recluse — in  some  deserted 
place,  where  I  should  never  have  to  see  people. 
Oh,  how  unendurable  they  become ! " 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  51 

Marcia  was  silent.  Henry  reflected  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  went  on: 

*'  Work,  labour,  power.  They  are  relative 
terms,  after  all.  It  has  been  said  that  no  one 
can  set  a  limit  to  the  accomplishments  of  nerv- 
ous force.  Nervous  energy — it's  that  which 
enables  a  delicate,  frail  woman,  in  a  passion,  to 
twist  and  break  iron  bars  with  her  naked  hands ; 
which  gives  a  man  the  strength,  in  some  mighty 
rage,  to  snap  asunder  chains,  to  overpower  men 
of  many  times  his  physical  capacity,  like  toys 
and  wisps  of  straw.  There  are  times  when  I 
understand — when  I  can  feel  this  tremendous 
force.  It's  after  I've  been  thinking,  with  every 
faculty  of  my  mind  engaged  upon  the  subject, 
whatever  it  may  be.  Gradually  the  difficulties 
disappear ;  the  knots  untie  themselves ;  the  tex- 
ture unweaves  itself ;  the  whole  thing  dissolves ; 
the  details  are  there  in  absolute  simplicity; 
nothing  is  concealed  from  me — nothing." 

While  he  talked  his  look  of  weariness  van- 
ished. A  glow  came  upon  each  cheek,  which 
before  had  been  almost  cadaverous.  His  words 
began  to  flow  like  a  torrent.  He  spoke  not  so 
much  to  Marcia  as  to  some  imagined  audience 
— perhaps  chiefly  to  himself. 

"  The  mood  is  the  thing,  after  all.  Give  me 
but  the  will  to  do  it — the  spell  of  single  in  ten- 


52  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

tion — -the  desire  and  the  determination — and 
there  is  nothing  I  could  not  do.  They  all  said 
I'd  fail  in  that  last  case,  Marcia.  Half  the 
lawyers  in  Denver  chuckled  and  triumphed  in 
advance  over  my  certain  failure  in  the  convic- 
tion of  my  client.  They  said  the  evidence 
against  him  was  positive  and  complete.  They 
were  willing, — yes,  eager, — to  witness  the 
young  lawyer's  downfall;  those  old  men,  im- 
pregnated with  musty  theories  and  perked  up 
in  the  tinsel  glories  of  the  ancient  code.  How 
little  they  knew,  poor  idiots !  " 

Woolford  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his 
deep-set  eyes  flashing,  his  lips  curved  with  a 
scorn  that  was  almost  terrible.  He  was  con- 
fidence incarnate,  contempt  in  apotheosis. 

"  When  I  stood  at  last  before  that  jury,"  he 
continued,  "  the  evidence  in,  the  case  against 
me,  the  judge  resolved,  the  lawyers  all  expect- 
ant— they  thronged  the  courtroom  that  day — 
I  said  within  myself  that  I  would  win.  From 
that  instant  there  was  no  doubt  of  it.  My 
client  might  that  very  minute  have  been  allowed 
to  walk  from  the  courtroom  free.  The  case  lay 
in  my  mind  as  clear  as  feldspar,  as  logical  as 
truth  itself.  I  had  but  to  marshal  the  facts, 
move  them  in  stately  procession,  colour  them 
with   meaning,   and  the  jury  would   be  over- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  53 

whelmed.  As  I  talked  I  felt  lifted  up,  inspired, 
exhilarated.  The  whole  range  of  human  emo- 
tions was  spread  out  before  me  like  the  key- 
board of  a  mighty  organ.  I  played,  and 
played,  and  played,  shifting  from  the  little 
treble  notes  of  fancy  and  phantasm  to  the  deep 
bass  chords  of  passion,  pity,  and  pain.  Ah! 
that  was  glorious. 

"  I  remember  the  judge — pompous,  preten- 
tious, and  pranked  out  in  all  the  petty  dignities 
of  his  position.  On  his  face  was  the  look 
of  one  that  bears  the  burden  of  the  world — 
the  air  of  an  Alexander  who  *  assumes  the 
god,  affects  to  nod,  and  seems  to  shake  the 
spheres.' 

"  There  was  the  prosecuting  attorney,  nerv- 
ous and  aggressive,  half  afraid  that  he  had  not 
impressed  the  jury  (and  the  audience)  with  his 
oratorical  abilities  in  the  speech  he  had  just 
concluded;  half  fearful  that  he  had  neglected 
some  important  point  that  would  have  told 
against  the  prisoner;  almost  pitying  the  poor 
wretch  whose  body  he  had  consigned  to  the  gal- 
lows because,  forsooth,  it  was  his  duty ;  and,  at 
the  mere  thought  of  duty,  becoming  himself 
again,  in  smug  self-satisfaction. 

"  Then  there  was  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  his 
head  bent  to  one  side,  as  if  he  practised  to 


64  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

dodge  the  rope  that  dangled  almost  within  his 
vision,  shifting  his  bulging  eyes  from  judge  to 
jury,  from  prosecutor  to  the  man  whose  words 
might  yet  save  him  from  death. 

"  And,  last  of  all,  there  was  the  jury,  honest 
men  enough,  but  mostly  stupid,  convinced  by 
the  lawyers  that  they  were  paragons  of  virtue 
and  exemplars  of  wisdom,  resolved  upon  doing 
justice,  every  man  according  to  his  light,  such 
as  it  was.  I  almost  laughed  as  I  thought  of 
the  child's  game  I  was  playing  with  those  pup- 
pets. But  it  was  a  serious  business,  as  human 
business  goes — serious  surely  to  the  poor  devil 
in  the  box.  I  conserved  my  power.  I  practised 
carefully  on  those  twelve  keys  before  me,  and 
studied  the  responses  that  I  got.  My  client 
should  be  acquitted.  That  is  what  I  told  them 
— told  them — told  them — so  that  they  could 
not  doubt  it.  One  by  one  I  felt  them  coming 
under  my  influence.  Steadily  I  mastered  them. 
One  was  stubborn  beyond  the  rest.  It  was  a 
keen  delight  to  draw  him,  play  with  him,  compel 
him,  subdue  him.  Finally  I  was  the  master  of 
them  all.  This  I  knew  to  the  very  bottom  of 
my  soul.  Besides,  the  judge  knew  it  and  the 
prosecutor  knew  it,  for  I  could  see  the  knowl- 
edge in  their  faces.  Then,  knowing  that  I  had 
won,  I  put  forth  all  the  reserve  of  energy  that 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  55 

was  in  me.  I  lifted  that  jury  to  the  heights  of 
virtue,  and  dropped  them  into  the  depths  of 
pity;  carried  them  far  into  the  pure  realms  of 
civic  duty,  and  back  through  the  worlds  of  dis- 
appointment and  of  tears.  No  power  on  earth 
could  then  have  wrested  a  verdict  of  guilty 
from  those  twelve  men." 

In  the  fever  of  his  strange  soliloquy  Wool- 
ford  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  had  taken 
to  pacing  the  room.  He  now  seated  himself 
again,  and,  with  a  long  indrawing  of  his 
breath,  turned  half-smiling  toward  his  sister, 
who  through  the  latter  part  of  his  speech  had 
sat  spellbound.  Well  as  she  knew  his  intensity 
and  the  workings  of  such  moods  as  this,  she  was 
more  amazed  at  every  recurrence  of  them. 
Composing  herself,  she  came  up  to  her  brother, 
placed  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  pleaded 
with  him. 

"  Why,  you're  all  in.  a  fever,  Henry,"  she 
said.     "  Please  don't  make  yourself  ill." 

Woolford  stood  up,  shook  himself  as  if  he 
were  awaking  from  a  sleep;  and  the  gaunt, 
tired  look  came  back  into  his  face. 

"  I  suppose  I  do  forget  myself,  sister. 
'  Something  too  much  of  this,'  as  Hamlet  would 
say.  Hamlet  would  say  so  many  things  that 
fit,    you    know.      But    come!      We'll    have   no 


56  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

more  of  these  cases  to-night.  You  shall  read  to 
me,  Marcia.  Where  were  we?  I  think  a  little 
of  old  Antoninus  would  be  good  now — unless 
you'd  rather  finish  '  Lammermoor '  with  me. 
Come." 


CHAPTER  VII 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 
Of  Magic  Shadow- shapes  that  come  and  go 
Round  with  the  Sun-illumin'd  Lantern  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show. 

— FiTZGEKALo's  Omar. 

In  the  two  weeks  that  followed  the  night  of 
Drake's  visit  to  the  Tlierdier  establishment  he 
had  been  unable  to  obtain  any  substantial  clue 
to  the  mystery. 

"  Cultivate  Woolford,"  had  been  the  Patri- 
arch's constant  advice.  "  He  broke  loose  once 
and  talked,  and  he'll  do  it  again." 

Drake  was  reluctant,  for  he  felt  in  approach- 
ing Woolford  a  hesitancy  such  as  he  had  never 
before  experienced.  In  this  dilemma  there 
came  to  him  a  happy  thought.  Dr.  Hammond, 
his  mother's  physician,  and  once  his  father's 
closest  friend,  was  also  the  Woolfords'  trusted 
doctor.  He  could  give  him  the  requisite  per- 
sonal introduction.  Drake  shrank  a  little 
from  this  scheme,  but  finally  told  Dr.  Hammond 
frankly  what  he  wanted,  and  gave  his  reason 
for  desiring  to  know  the  lawyer  socially. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  old  doctor,  with  a  twinkle 
67 


58  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

in  his  eye.  "  You  met  Marcia,  too,  did  you, 
when  you  interviewed  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Drake,  confused ;  but  the 
cause  of  it  he  could  not  in  that  instant  have 
explained,  even  to  himself. 

**  Are  you  sure  your  only  purpose  in  seeking 
Woolf ord's  acquaintance  is  business  ?  "  contin- 
ued the  physician,  quizzically.  "  Now  own 
up,  sir!  Hasn't  that  pair  of  very  bright 
eyes  and  that  lovely  face  something  to  do  with 
all  this,  eh?  I'm  afraid  you're  very  like  your 
father,  Allan." 

Drake  protested  honestly  enough  that  only 
his  enthusiasm  in  the  case  had  prompted  this 
request;  but  he  could  not  save  himself  from 
stammering  a  little,  and  he  was  sure  his  face 
had  coloured  deeply. 

"  Well,  well,  Allan !  Liking  Marcia  is  noth- 
ing to  be  ashamed  of.  She  is  about  the  best 
and  sweetest  girl  that  ever  lived.  Mary  and 
I  have  been  married  forty  years,  and  the  other 
night  she  said  to  me,  '  John,  I've  never  had  any 
cause  to  be  jealous;  but  I  declare  if  it  ain't 
getting  scandalous  how  you  adore  that  girl 
Marcia !  If  you  weren't  nigh  onto  seventy 
years  old  I'd  be  getting  kind  o'  worried.'  "  Dr. 
Hammond  laughed  till  he  hiccoughed,  and  held 
his  sides  with  his  hands. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  59 

"All  right,  Allan,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'll 
ask  Henry  and  Marcia  to  dinner,  and  you  and 
your  mother  can  meet  them.  I'll  tell  Henry 
he's  got  to  help  you  out  on  this  thing.  If 
you're  bound  to  be  a  newspaper  man,  we've  got 
to  put  you  on  top  of  the  heap." 

After  the  dinner  at  Dr.  Hammond's  home, 
the  lawyer  responded  with  such  courtesy  and 
friendliness  to  the  physician's  warm  recom- 
mendation that  only  a  few  days  later  Drake 
was  invited  to  dine  with  Henry  and  his  sister. 
Marcia  was  in  buoyant  spirits  that  evening. 
She  wore  a  pale  blue  gown  that  harmonised  in 
some  unusual  way  with  the  deep,  sunset  hues  of 
her  hair — a  combination  of  colours  that,  when 
successful  at  all,  compensates  amazingly  for 
the  hazard  of  it. 

Several  times  while  they  were  at  table  Drake 
found  himself  looking  at  Woolford,  as  if  com- 
pelled. The  lawyer's  talk  was  singularly  in- 
teresting, perhaps  more  because  of  his  manner 
than  what  he  said.  They  were  talking  of  the 
part  chance  plays  in  the  ordering  of  men's  lives. 
Woolford  became  silent  and  ruminative.  After 
a  short  interval,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  table, 
he  said  in  a  low,  slow  tone: 

"  The  spectacle  of  human  life  is  to  me  like 
some  fantastic  scene  in  which  a  rabble  of  bar- 


60  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

lequins,  buffoons,  and  mountebanks  are  strug- 
gling, pushing,  hurrying  along  a  broad  high- 
way, knowing  no  more  whither  they  go  than 
whence  they  came;  but  all  are  forced  on  con- 
tinually, as  if  by  some  invisible  and  irresistible 
power,  some  strange  and  unknown  purpose." 

He  paused,  and  his  attitude  reminded  Drake 
of  a  tragedian  who  has  become  so  identical 
with  the  heavy  part  he  plays  that  he  is  uncon- 
scious of  his  audience. 

"  Now  and  then  one  of  the  mob,"  the  lawyer 
continued,  "  emerges  to  one  side,  out  of  the 
pathway  of  the  human  stream.  He  halts,  looks 
ahead,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  are  the 
contending  thousands ;  he  gazes  backward,  and 
out  of  illimitable  distance  pours  the  current  of 
contorted  and  distorted  humanity.  As  he  is 
constituted  for  sorrow  or  for  mirth,  he  is  sud- 
denly overcome  by  g.ief  or  laughter;  and  he 
would  fain  lay  down  his  burden.  But  the  iron 
prod  of  the  inevitable  goads  him  on,  and  once 
more  he  is  swallowed  up  in  the  helpless,  inco- 
herent mass  of  fools — these  zanies  who  are  to 
go  on  for  ever,  fantastic  in  their  griefs,  ridic- 
ulous in  their  joys." 

As  he  concluded,  Drake  was  at  once  struck 
with  the  resemblance  of  his  metaphor  to  that 
grotesque  procession  in  "  Notre  Dame,"  and  of 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  61 

a  scene  in  Hawthorne;  but  somehow  the  im- 
agery employed  by  Woolford,  old  though  it  may 
have  been,  took  on  a  strange  freshness  and  a 
sinister  meaning  that  made  it  new. 

"  I  do  not  at  all  agree  with  my  brother's 
philosophy,"  said  Marcia,  a  little  later.  "  The 
extremes  of  life  have  little  attraction  for  me, 
except  for  the  lessons  they  teach.  It  is  so 
much  nicer  to  take  a  happy  view  of  things. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Drake?  " 

"  To  be  able  to  do  that  all  the  time  is  to  have 
a  special  gift  from  the  gods,"  answered  Drake, 
appreciatively. 

"  If  one  could  go  right  down  the  middle  of 
life,  and  escape  the  extremes  of  joy  and  sor- 
row, wouldn't  that  be  the  fortunate  thing.?'* 
continued  Marcia,  a  bright  smile  lighting  up 
her  face. 

" '  As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of 
friends,'  "  added  Drake. 

"That's  it!"  exclaimed  Marcia.  "But 
Henry  doesn't  want  troops  of  friends — prefers 
troops  of  enemies,  I  think,"  said  the  girl,  half 
mischievously. 

"  I'm  somewhat  indifferent  as  to  that,"  re- 
marked the  lawyer. 

The  contrast  between  brother  and  sister  was 
a  little  puzzling  to  Drake.     Marcia  was  cheer- 


62  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

ful  in  disposition,  broadly  sympathetic,  and 
filled  with  health  and  vigour.  Henry  seemed 
to  be  impelled  by  a  cold,  harsh  cynicism. 

As  time  went  on,  and  Drake  became  a  fre- 
quent and  welcome  visitor  at  the  Woolford 
home,  the  vague  feeling  of  antipathy  that  had 
come  to  him  that  night  when  he  first  met  Henry 
had  magically  disappeared,  save  that  when  he 
now  and  then  encountered  the  lawyer  in  one  of 
his  sombre  moods  the  old  sensation  mastered 
him  again.  With  Marcia  he  was  always  at 
ease  and  happy. 

In  the  library  one  day  they  were  searching 
many  books  for  a  certain  disputed  passage. 
Drake,  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  with  his  head 
bent  low,  and  with  his  mind  intent  upon  his 
purpose  to  settle  the  controversy,  was  slowly 
turning  the  leaves  of  a  volume.  Marcia,  in  a 
kind  of  girlish  abandon  to  the  fever  of  the 
pursuit,  was  seated  plump  upon  the  floor,  her 
face  flushed  with  the  exercise,  a  score  of  old 
books  scattered  around  her.  Like  a  fair 
flower,  all  pink  and  golden,  blooming  in  some 
ancient  quarry,  among  stained  but  imperish- 
able fragments  hewn  centuries  ago,  Marcia's 
fresh  and  shining  presence  there  in  the  library 
gave  a  touch  of  lively  pathos  to  those  chron- 
icles of  dead  men's  thoughts. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  63 

"  Do  you  know,"  Marcia  said,  impulsively, 
as  she  brushed  back  a  vagrant  lock  of  hair,  "  I 
think  we  get  along  famously  together." 

"  Strange  that  I  was  thinking  of  the  same 
thing,"  Drake  rejoined,  secretly  gratified. 

"  Before  you  came  to  our  house,"  continued 
Marcia,  regretfully,  "  we  rather  discouraged 
callers.     Henry  isn't  fond  of  society." 

"  Neither  am  I.  I  dishke  the  set  affairs  of 
society  as  much  as  your  brother  does,  I  fancy," 
Drake  said,  earnestly.  "  I  like  to  meet  you  in 
this  manner — to  come  and  go  like  a  nomad — to 
wander  along  the  way  we  do;  and  I  can't  tell 
you  how  much  I  enjoy  these  talks  we  have — 
you  and  I." 

Drake  watched  her  smile  suddenly  grow 
serious. 

"  Have  you  found  any  clue  to  the  stran- 
gler  ?  "  she  asked,  abruptly  changing  the  sub- 
ject. 

**  I  haven't  despaired,  though  it  seems  an 
endless  task." 

Marcia  watched  the  clouds  come  and  go 
across  his  face.  "  Sometimes  I  almost  hope  he 
will  escape,"  she  confessed,  with  a  shudder. 
"  I  have  a  greater  dread  of  that  case  than  any 
other  my  brother  has  had." 

**  That's  like  a  woman — ^wanting  a  murderer 


64  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

to  escape,"  Drake  said,  with  gentle  reproof. 
And  then,  after  a  pause :  "  The  farther  I  go 
into  the  case  the  more  important  those  flowers 
— the  red  carnations  your  brother  told  about — 
seem  to  me.     I  wonder " 

"  I  think  Henry  looks  for  them  to  solve  the 
mystery." 

"  I  believe  they  will,"  continued  Drake, 
growing  interested.  *'  The  other  day  I  took  a 
piece  of  the  cord  they  were  tied  with — you  will 
remember  hearing  that  all  three  bouquets 
were  tied  with  exactly  similar  string — to  every 
florist  in  the  city.  It  was  common  twine,  such 
as  is  generally  used  in  grocery  stores.  Not  a 
single  florist  in  town  used  cord  of  the  same 
thickness,  texture,  or  colour.  Strange !  "  he 
concluded.  "  Everything  I  touch  in  this  case 
— everything,  gives  back  a  suggestion  of  in- 
scrutability. As  you  say,  something  weird 
and  exasperating." 

Drake  rose  from  his  chair;  and  Marcia, 
scrambling  to  her  feet,  exclaimed  with  a  merry 
laugh :  "  We  haven't  found  that  passage  yet !  " 

**  No,  it's  almost  as  hard  to  locate  as  the 
strangler,"  said  Drake,  joining  in  the  laugh. 
"  You  may  be  right ;  but  if  Montaigne  said  it, 
the  translator  has  put  more  music  into  the 
words  than  translators  usually  give  to  the  fine 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  65 

sayings  of  those  old  fellows.  It  fairly  sings 
in  my  head  now,  only  I  can't  quite  grasp  it  all. 
*  A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities, 
but ' — something  or  other.  It  sounds  to  me 
like  Shakespeare — a  common  quotation,  too,  I 
suppose.  At  any  rate,  I'm  going  to  take  this 
volume  of  Montaigne  home  with  me,  if  you 
please,  and  give  you  all  the  chance  in  the  world 
to  be  right.'* 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Go,  stalk  the  red  deer  o'er  the  heather. 

Ride,  follow  the  fox  if  you  can. 
But  for  pleasure  and  profit  together, 

Allow  me  the  hunting  of  man, — 
The  chase  of  the  human,  the  search  for  the  Soul 

To  its  ruin, — the  hunting  of  Man. 

— RUDYAHD    KlFLIirO. 

The  following  evening,  as  Drake  walked 
towards  the  French  Quarter,  he  reflected  with 
a  passing  qualm  of  self-reproach  upon  the 
anomalies  and  contrasts  with  which  his  life  was 
filled.  Last  night,  Marcia ;  to-night,  Elise  and 
Therdier.  He  felt  the  blood  painting  a  pro- 
test in  his  cheeks,  and  quietly  checked  it  with 
a  laugh. 

"  See  here,  old  man,"  he  said  to  the  inmost 
Drake,  "  this  won't  do.  There  is  no  place  for 
tender  scruples  in  your  business.  This  sudden 
modesty !  But  how  easy  it  is  to  justify  every- 
thing— thoughts,  words,  deeds — on  a  business 
basis!  No  wonder  some  men  envy  us  our  im- 
munities; covet  our  privileges  to  go  every- 
where; to  know  anybody — even  Richard  Ther- 
dier." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  67 

There  was  a  great  difference  between  the 
brothtrs  —  Richard  and  Jacques  Therdier. 
Naturally,  in  a  city  Hke  Denver,  where  the 
French  population  is  not  very  large,  they  were 
bound  to  have  some  acquaintances,  business 
relations,  and  interests  in  common.  It  was 
perhaps  in  outward  appearance  that  they  were 
the  more  dissimilar;  Richard  was  stout,  coarse, 
slovenly  in  appearance.  He  and  his  wife, 
Diane,  had  never  risen  above  the  majority  of 
their  compatriots,  or  knew  the  better  class  of 
Frenchmen  or  Americans. 

Jacques,  on  the  contrary,  was  an  acknowl- 
edged leader.  Well-read,  courteous,  refined, 
careful  as  to  his  dress,  he  dominated  his  coun- 
trymen, and  had  many  friends  in  the  city. 
The  fact  that  he  owned  a  gambling-house,  as 
might  be  expected,  debarred  him  from  certain 
circles  that,  had  his  business  and  environment 
been  otherwise,  would  have  welcomed  him  as  a 
desirable  acquaintance.  He  had  never  married. 
His  relations  with  his  ward,  Elise,  were  more 
like  father  and  daughter,  and  as  such  he  re- 
garded her.  He  adored,  petted,  and  spoiled 
her,  but  never  for  one  instant  forgot  the  value 
of  her  services  as  an  attraction  that  lured  and 
cajoled  men  to  gamble  with  him. 

The  murder  of  Diane   Therdier,   although 


68  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

there  had  never  been  any  familiar  relations  be- 
tween the  two  estabhshments,  followed  by  the 
accusation  against  his  brother,  aroused  all  the 
intense  fighting  spirit  that  was  in  the  man. 
He  at  once  took  charge  of  the  case,  retained 
the  services  of  Woolford,  and,  as  the  leading 
spirit  of  the  secret  organisation,  called  out  all 
its  resources. 

"  Compagniel "  What  was  this  inscruta- 
ble, mysterious  society?  Drake  experienced 
anew  the  unpleasant  feeling  compounded  of 
dread  and  fascination  that  the  name  always 
bred  in  him.  In  his  newspaper  experiences  he 
had  encountered  its  members  many  times;  and 
as  well  as  an  outsider  could,  he  knew  its  wealth 
and  power ;  that  its  actual  name,  "  Le  Cercle 
Fratemel,"  but  always  referred  to  by  both 
French  and  Americans  as  the  "  Compagnie," 
was  a  convenient,  serviceable  title — an  ex- 
pansive blanket  to  cover  its  operations;  that  it 
was  composed  solely  of  Frenchmen;  that  what- 
ever its  hidden  purpose  and  object,  secrecy  was 
always  maintained,  its  members  were  under 
oath,  disregard  of  which  met  with  swift  and 
terrible  reprisals. 

Drake,  on  his  way  to  Therdier's,  revolved  in 
his  mind  many  plans.  He  was  convinced  that 
only  through  this  society  could  this  maze  of 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  69 

murder  be  made  clear.  He  must  find  a  way 
into  their  secrets,  and  could  devise  no  better 
plan  than  to  go  straight  to  Elise,  tell  her  pre- 
cisely why  he  had  come,  and  ask  her  cate- 
gorically if  the  "  Compagnie  "  knew  anything 
about  the  crimes.  He  did  not  expect  a  frank, 
truthful  answer,  but  hoped  that  thus  taken 
by  surprise,  she  might  unwittingly,  by  some 
action,  word,  or  look,  give  him  the  hint  he 
sought. 

Jacques  Therdier  and  Elise  were  alone  in 
their  apartment.  The  latter,  gowned  in  vivid 
crimson,  a  string  of  superb  jewels  clasped 
around  her  throat,  the  usual  red  rose  in  her 
hair,  was  listening  attentively  to  him.  A 
casual  observer  would  scarcely  have  noticed 
the  slightest  tension  in  their  relations;  yet  the 
man,  in  full  evening  dress,  smoking  cigarettes 
incessantly,  was  visibly  nervous — had  some- 
thing very  acute  disturbing  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is  only  natural  that  I  should  be  a 
trifle  worried,"  Therdier  was  saying  rapidly  in 
French.  "  Richard's  trial  is  only  a  short  time 
off,  and  in  spite  of  the  supreme  confidence  of 
his  lawyer  that  he  will  clear  him,  the  fact  that 
we  cannot  find  this  man  who  committed  the  deed 
exasperates  me." 

Elise  made  no  reply.     Therdier  remained  for 


70  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

some  time  in  deep  thought.  He  was  regarding 
her  intently. 

"Elise!" 

"  Yes." 

"  Diane  Therdier  and  you  never  were  friends, 
that  I  know;  but  did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one 
paying  her  special  attention  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  can  remember.  Why  do  you 
ask.?  "  There  was  nothing  but  idle  curiosity 
in  the  question. 

"  Because  one  of  my  men  has  heard  some 
rumours — terribly  vague,  to  be  sure — that 
there  had  been  some  one." 

For  a  second  only  the  face  of  the  girl  paled 
slightly ;  but  the  voice  that  replied  was  steady. 

"  It  is  evidently  nothing  but  a  stupid  repeti- 
tion of  all  the  other  stories.  Bah!  Imbe- 
ciles!" 

Jacques  Therdier  rose.  Apparently,  he  was 
relieved.  "  I  must  be  going,"  he  announced, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  We  have  a  meeting  to- 
night.   You  have  nothing  further  to  tell  me?  " 

"  No,  I  have  been  quite  by  myself,  lately.  A 
friend  of  Monsieur  Murphy  is  about  the  only 
new  face  I  have  seen;  probably  just  as  rich," 
she  replied  with  an  insinuating  gesture. 

"  Then,  good-night !  "  Therdier  went  out. 
The  moment  the  door  closed,  a  look  of  anxiety 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  71 

crossed  the  girl's  face;  a  slight  tremble  passed 
over  her  frame. 

"  A  meeting  to-night !  "  she  repeated  to  her- 
self. "  I  must  find  out  what  they  are  doing ! " 
The  electric  bell  rang;  it  startled  her;  but  by 
the  time  Drake  entered,  she  was  thoroughly 
composed,  and  lazily  reclining  in  a  great  arm- 
chair. She  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her  sur- 
prise at  seeing  him. 

"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  all  about  me." 
She  spoke  in  a  tone  suggesting  something  of 
pique  and  a  little  of  reproach. 

"  No,"  answered  Drake,  apologetically.  "  I 
haven't  been  down  this  way  lately." 

"  Quoi?  You  are  not  at  work  on  your  mys- 
terious case?  " 

"That  wasn't  it,"  protested  Drake.  "I 
didn't  suppose  you  would  care  especially  to 
see  me." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wanted  to  see  you !  Jamais!  " 
retorted  Elise,  elevating  her  chin.  "  I  have 
been  triste,  to-day,  and  I  am  glad  you  came." 

She  drew  a  chair  for  him  close  to  her  own, 
and  settled  down  to  be  amused.  Drake  was  not 
in  the  mood  to  coax  the  pampered  beauty  into 
a  good  humour;  and  in  disdain  of  her  fascina- 
tions, promptly  set  to  work  to  accomplish  the 
object  of  his  visit. 


72  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  Mam*selle  Elise,"  he  said,  pleasantly,  but 
with  determination,  "  I  came  here  to-night  to 
speak  with  you  about  these  crimes." 

This  cool,  straightforward  declaration  struck 
an  ominous  little  spark  from  the  girl's  eyes. 
Ignoring  it,  he  went  on : 

"  I  would  like  to  talk  openly  with  you  about 
the  strangling  case.  You  know  that  I  am  work- 
ing on  it,  and  wish  to  find  the  man  who  killed 
these  women.  I  don't  ask  you  to  reveal  any 
important  secret  —  betray  your  friends.  It 
means  a  great  deal  to  me;  and  won't  you  say," 
he  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper, 
*'  whether  the  *  Compagnie  '  know  anything — 
whether  Richard  Therdier  is  guilty  or  not?  " 
Drake  spoke  slowly,  with  a  significance  that  she 
could  not  mistake ;  watching  her  closely,  hoping 
for  some  incriminating  sign  or  gesture. 

Elise  remained  passive,  her  eyes  downcast 
upon  a  bit  of  lace  at  which  her  taper  fingers 
were  picking.  Presently,  her  lips  curled  ever  so 
little,  and  she  looked  up  coldly  to  meet  Drake's 
steady  scrutiny. 

"  Alorg, — that's  what  you  came  for,  is  it?" 
she  said,  in  a  low,  hard  tone.  "  You  are  not 
flattering.  Monsieur  Drake." 

Both  remained  silent.  Drake  continued  to 
look  into  her  countenance  searchingly ;  Elise  re- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  73 

newed  her  attack  upon  the  frill.  It  seemed  a 
long  time  to  him  before  she  lifted  her  eyes 
again,  and  said  more  softly  than  she  had  yet 
spoken : 

"  I  can  assure  you  of  one  thing,  and  that  is, 
that  Jacques  Therdier  knows  his  brother  to  be 
innocent,  and  will  spend  every  cent  he  has,  if 
necessary,  to  prove  it." 

Another  silence  followed.  Suddenly,  she 
looked  into  Drake's  eyes,  her  own  afire  with  an 
emotion  he  could  not  analyse;  then  she  sprang 
to  her  feet. 

"  Come  with  me !  "  she  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
She  stepped  into  an  adj  oining  room  and  quickly 
reappeared,  throwing  a  dark  long  mantle  over 
her  head  and  shoulders. 

"  Come ! "  she  cried  again. 

Surprised,  with  every  nerve  tingling,  Drake 
followed  her  in  silence.  She  led  him  through 
the  hall  to  a  back  stairway,  narrow  and  steep. 
Descending,  they  entered  a  kitchen  where  men 
in  caps  and  aprons  were  busy  around  a  huge, 
hot  range.  Some  of  them  merely  glanced; 
others  did  not  look  up  from  their  occupation. 
The  girl  opened  a  door,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  darkness.  For  a  brief  interval,  they  stood 
still  until  their  eyes  became  adjusted  to  the 
blackness  of  the  night.     Dark  vapours  arose 


74  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

from  beneath  their  feet ;  they  were  in  a  muddy, 
murky  alley.  A  few  feet  away  was  a  dimly 
lighted  street,  where  a  few  people  loitered; 
looking  far  down  the  other  direction,  as  if 
through  a  tunnel,  was  the  feeble  illumination 
of  another  thoroughfare.  From  both  ways, 
from  overhead,  from  the  very  walls  and  the 
ground  beneath  their  feet,  came  the  character- 
istic noises  of  the  Quarter:  distant  laughter 
that  was  strident  even  in  its  f  aintness ;  the  sing- 
song cries  of  tamale-men;  harsh  shouts  and 
screeches;  the  muffled  dissonance  of  instru- 
ments and  voices — a  medley  of  madly  merry 
men  and  women,  all  desperately  engaged  in 
draining  the  last  purple  dregs  from  their  shal- 
low cups. 

Drake  felt  Elise's  warm  hand  steal  into  his 
and  grasp  it  firmly.  "  Allans!  Allans  vite!  " 
she  exclaimed.  Unerringly  she  picked  her  way 
over  the  mud  and  the  rubbish,  still  clutching 
tightly  Drake's  hand  to  guide  him.  Men 
passed  them  at  intervals.  Drake  could  not  see 
their  faces,  but  Elise  whispered,  as  one  stepped 
out  of  their  way,  "  Keep  close  to  me !  Pay  no 
attention  to  any  one !  Those  were  some  of  them ! 
The  *  Compagnie  '  has  its  spies  everywhere ! 
You  must  not  be  recognised !  " 

Something   in    her    voice    caused    Drake   to 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  9  75 

look  swiftly  toward  her;  but  the  darkness 
hid  her  face.  She  puzzled  him  more  and 
more. 

They  were  midway  of  the  alley  now.  To 
their  left,  the  rear  walls  of  five-  and  six-story 
business  blocks  rose  sheer  above  them.  Feeble 
lights  struggled  here  and  there  through  un- 
washed window  panes.  On  the  right,  were  tall, 
jagged  fences,  whose  irregularities  left  obscure 
vacancies  which,  to  Drake's  straining  fancy, 
appeared  to  be  alive  with  sombre  shapes  and 
shadows.  At  last  they  came  to  a  spot,  almost 
at  the  alley  entrance,  where  a  patch  of  light 
lay  upon  the  ground.  It  came  from  the  open 
rear  door  of  a  barroom.  Across  the  alley  from 
this  door  was  the  rear  entrance  of  a  ram- 
shackle building,  four  stories  high.  Here,  they 
entered  a  little  hallway.  Through  a  door  that 
stood  ajar,  Drake  could  see  a  group  of  pale 
Frenchmen  playing  cards.  Further  toward  the 
front,  another  group  stood  around  a  billiard 
table. 

Elise  conducted  Drake  up  a  crooked  stair- 
way, through  a  long  low  passage,  which  had 
many  smaller  passages  leading  away  from  it; 
up  another  tortuous  stair  and  along  another 
hall ;  and  finally  led  him  into  a  small  room  near 
the  front  of  the  building. 


76  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  Stay  here  till  I  come  back,"  she  said, 
quietly,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Drake  leaned  against  the  wall  and  waited — 
waited  a  long  time,  so  it  seemed  to  him  in  the 
darkness.  Presently,  the  door  was  opened 
softly ;  Elise  whispered  to  him  to  follow  her.  He 
thought  there  would  never  be  an  end  to  the  dark 
passages.  After  a  while,  they  approached  a 
spot  where  he  could  see,  through  a  window,  an 
arc-lamp,  like  a  star,  far  away  in  the  night; 
and  near  the  window  a  faint  rectangle  of  yel- 
low light  upon  the  wall.  At  the  sound  of  voices, 
they  stole  forward  on  tiptoe,  till  they  reached 
an  angle,  where  the  passage  turned  abruptly 
to  the  right.  Elise  grasped  Drake's  arm,  drew 
him  cautiously  beyond  the  angle,  and  not  dar- 
ing to  speak,  pointed. 

Drake  looked  sharply  in  the  direction  she 
indicated.  Scarcely  a  dozen  feet  away,  four 
men  around  a  table  were  playing  cards  and 
talking  in  low  tones.  The  door  of  the  room 
stood  open,  and  a  lamp  lit  up  the  faces  of  two 
of  them.  Drake  could  not  recollect  having  seen 
either  of  them  before.  He  was  studying  their 
dark  countenances  when  Elise  gripped  his  arm 
tightly,  and  quickly  pulled  him  with  her  into 
the  window's  deep  recess.  The  sound  of  foot- 
steps had  reached  her  ears,  and  soon  a  man  came 


THEY    DON  T    KNOW 


THAT  S    CERTAIN 


THEY    DON  T    KNOW — YET. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  77 

hurrying  toward  them.  As  he  passed  beneath 
the  kerosene  lamp  that  furnished  the  sole  illumi- 
nation of  the  hallway,  Elise  whispered: 

"  Jacques  Therdier." 

She  moved  closer  to  Drake,  and  clutched  his 
shoulder  with  both  hands.  Pressing  as  hard  as 
they  could  against  the  window-panes,  their 
bodies  were  barely  within  the  shadow  of  the 
recess.  They  held  their  breath  while  Therdier 
passed — so  near,  that  he  might  have  felt  their 
presence,  had  he  not  been  so  intent  upon  his 
business. 

When  Therdier  had  joined  the  men,  the  door 
was  left  wide  open,  as  if  no  thought  of  possible 
listeners  had  occurred  to  them.  The  cards  were 
put  aside,  and  all  entered  into  animated  conver- 
sation; their  voices,  though  low  and  guarded, 
were  clearly  audible.  Elise  bent  eagerly  for- 
ward, straining  to  catch  the  words. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  found  ?  "  inquired 
Therdier,  brusquely,  in  English. 

"  Nothing  yet,"  answered  one ;  "  but  we  think 
we're  on  the  right  track." 

Drake  felt  a  little  tremor  pass  through 
Elise's  body.  He  wondered  if  she  feared  they 
might  reveal  too  much  to  him.  Another  man 
spoke;  this  time,  in  French,  The  men  huddled 
around  the  table.      Elise,  holding  her  breath, 


78  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

leaned  forward  in  front  of  Drake,  one  hand 
resting  on  his  knee,  the  other  upon  his  arm. 
Her  hair  brushed  his  mouth,  and  he  felt  the 
tremulous  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  against 
his  arm.  Gradually  the  men  spoke  louder,  their 
words  accompanied  by  angry  gestures.  Sud- 
denly EUse  brought  her  face  round  to  his,  so 
that  she  could  look  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  understand,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  "  she 
muttered  in  a  low  voice,  quivering  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  No,  not  one  word." 

Her  hands  perceptibly  loosened  their  grasp; 
she  breathed  a  deep  sigh.  Instinctively,  Drake 
felt  that  it  was  a  relief  to  her. 

The  men  at  the  table  once  more  became  quiet, 
listening  to  the  earnest  utterances  of  one  of 
their  number.  He  spoke  calmly,  and  with  pre- 
cision. Elise  was  scarcely  breathing,  so  intent 
was  she  on  hearing  everything  said.  Once,  she 
could  not  restrain  herself. 

"  Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  "  exclaimed  the  ter- 
rified girl.  Finally,  the  conference  ended. 
Therdier  rose  to  go. 

"  Well,"  he  concluded,  dropping  back  into 
English,  "  find  that  man  before  my  brother's 
trial  comes  off,  and  you  shall  have  the  money." 

**  We'll  do  it,"  said  one  of  the  four. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  79 

Therdier  left  them;  and  in  the  room  the 
card  game  was  resumed.  Elise  waited  until 
Therdier  had  again  passed,  and  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  had  died  away  before  she 
cautiously  beckoned  Drake  to  follow  her;  and 
then  together  the  breathless  pair  made  their 
escape  undiscovered. 

"  Who  was  the  man  they  meant.? "  whis- 
pered Drake  as  they  stole  through  the  alley. 

Elise  was  silent,  and  there  was  a  shadow  upon 
her  face. 

"  They  don't  know,"  she  answered,  in  an 
absent  manner,  "  that's  certain.  They  don't 
know — yet." 


CHAPTER  IX 

This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod; 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracie 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

— Shakespeare's  The  Tempest, 

Aftee  the  night  expedition  with  Elise,  Drake 
determined  to  see  Woolford  and  confer  with 
him  regarding  the  latest  developments.  He 
was  eager  to  ascertain  his  opinion  about  the 
discovery  that  the  Frenchmen  themselves  were 
hunting  the  strangler.  He  knew  that  the  dis- 
trict attorney  and  the  police  were  now  quite 
satisfied  with  the  imposing  wall  of  circum- 
stantial evidence  that  they  had  built  around 
Richard  Therdier.  He  decided  to  tell  the  law- 
yer what  he  had  heard.  His  purpose  was  two- 
fold :  he  wanted  to  help  him  free  Richard  Ther- 
dier, and  at  the  same  time  to  be  assisted  in  his 
own  investigations. 

When  Drake  entered  the  lawyer's  office,  he 
found  him  alone  and  hard  at  work.  Turning 
from  his  books  and  manuscript,  he  greeted  him 
with  outstretched  hand — a  sign  to  Drake  that 
he  was  in  a  gracious  mood.  He  listened  atten- 
80 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  81 

tively  to  his  story  and  heard  him  to  the 
end. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  that  was  a  very 
good  night's  work,  Drake;  but  I  knew  it  all 
before.  They  have  no  clue — none,  at  any  rate, 
that  amounts  to  much." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that .''  "  asked  Drake,  some- 
what crestfallen. 

"  Perfectly  sure." 

"  Well,  those  fellows  think  they're  going  to 
earn  that  money." 

Woolford  laughed  and,  rising,  began  to 
gather  up  the  papers  that  httered  his  desk. 
"  Come  up  to  the  house  to-night,  Drake,"  he 
said,  presently.  "  I'm  going  to  take  a  final  trip 
over  the  ground  to  be  ready  for  the  trial.  You 
can  go  with  me  if  you  like." 

"  I'll  be  very  glad  to  go,"  responded  Drake, 
eager  and  grateful  for  the  opportunity  to 
study  the  case  in  the  company  of  a  man  who 
could  with  such  amazing  ease  discount  his  every 
effort,  however  artful  or  fortuitous,  to  unravel 
the  tangled  threads  of  this  mystery.  Was  there 
any  limit  to  the  man.''  he  asked  himself.  Was 
there  anything  Woolford  did  not  know  about 
these  crimes,  committed  with  diabolical  delibera- 
tion and  in  astounding  secrecy?  What  were 
the  sources  of  his  information.?     Could  it  be 


82  ART  THOU  THE  MAN? 

that  the  lawyer  was  gifted  with  some  sixth 
sense  of  instinct  or  perception  which  led  him 
straight  and  swiftly  to  what  common  men  must 
toil  to  reach?  Drake's  wonder  grew  with  every 
minute  he  spent  in  Woolford's  company. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  when  they  left  the 
Woolford  home  and  set  out  for  the  scene  of  the 
stranglings.  The  night  was  cool  and  clear, 
and  the  air  was  a  tonic  for  tired  nerves.  From 
the  south  a  light  breeze  blew,  and  in  the  west, 
where  the  radiant  moonlight  fell  full  upon 
them,  white  peaks  sparkled  above  the  blue  mists 
of  the  foothills.  Drake  remarked  that  he  had 
never  seen  a  more  lovely  night;  and  he  noticed 
that  Woolford's  eyes  were  bright  and  his  step 
elastic,  as  if  he  too  had  been  medicined  with 
nature's  magic  remedies.  The  lawyer  was  in- 
deed more  frank  and  companionable  than  Drake 
had  ever  known  this  sombre,  self-contained,  and 
unsociable  man  to  be.  As  they  walked  he 
poured  out  a  stream  of  talk  that  led  presently 
to  the  subject  that  was,  at  that  time,  paramount 
in  the  minds  of  both. 

"  When  I  was  in  college,"  said  Woolford, 
*'  we  had  a  professor  of  higher  mathematics 
who  was  known  to  have  worked  on  a  problem 
forty-eight  hours  without  ceasing,  for  the  pure 
satisfaction  of  having  solved  it.     Mathematics 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  83 

was  his  chief  pleasure, — his  hobby,  if  you 
please,  as  crime  is  mine.  Unless  you  have  gone 
into  this  case  deeper  than  people  who  write  so 
glibly  about  these  things  usually  do,  you  can- 
not know  the  fascination  there  is  in  the  study  of 
crime — the  spur  that  the  motives  and  the  moods 
of  men  can  give  to  mental  effort.  And  the 
true  method  is  simple " 

"The  true  method!  What  is  it?"  asked 
Drake,  astonished. 

"  Thoroughness  —  that's  the  word.  Leave 
nothing  unquestioned  or  unanswered.  When 
you  have  mastered  all  the  points  of  the  de- 
fence in  your  client's  case,  go  over  to  the  side 
of  the  prosecution  and  find  out  what  there  is 
in  it.  Place  yourself  in  the  shoes  of  the  de- 
tectives; warp  your  mind  to  their  attitude  of 
disbelief  and  brutal  incredulity.  Then,  when 
you  have  studied  every  phase  of  the  crime,  from 
every  point  of  view,  go  back  to  your  client 
knowing  how  he  stands,  what  you  may  expect 
for  him  and  against  him,  and  so  be  prepared 
for  every  possible  emergency.  A  good  way  to 
prove  that  your  client  is  not  guilty  is  to  find 
the  guilty  man." 

"  But  that  sort  of  preparation — isn't  it 
pretty  difficult  in  a  case  so  unique  and  so  in- 
fernally baffling  as  this  one.'' " 


84  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  All  the  more  fascinating,  then,"  responded 
the  lawyer.  **  Here  is  the  very  masterpiece  of 
the  extraordinary  criminal.  Here  is  a  crime 
conceived,  planned,  and  executed  with  almost 
superhuman  cunning.  And  yet  cunning  may 
be  overcome — may  even  overreach  itself,  and 
point  the  way  to  its  own  undoing.  Reason — 
cold,  hard  logic !  What  can  mere  craftiness 
avail  in  a  contest  with  the  mental  force  that 
moves  from  premise  to  conclusion  as  unerringly 
as  Tell's  arrow,  and  as  relentlessly  as  a  Jug- 
gernaut. Let  us  match  our  reasoning  powers, 
our  capacity  for  pure,  concentrated  thought, 
against  the  cunning  and  the  craft  of  the 
strangler,  and  we  shall  win.  The  contest  may 
be  long,  for  craft  is  resourceful  and  cunning, 
as  elusive  as  the  wind;  but  in  the  end,  when 
we  have  freed  Therdier  so  that  no  man  shall 
doubt  his  innocence,  then,  Drake,  we  shall  reveal 
the  real  criminal." 

All  this  he  uttered  in  a  voice  and  with  a 
manner  of  such  inscrutable  assurance  that 
Drake,  for  all  that  he  knew,  or  thought  he 
knew,  the  intensity  of  the  lawyer's  nature, 
turned  a  look  of  astonishment  upon  him.  They 
were  just  then  in  the  full  glare  of  an  arc-lamp, 
and  he  could  see  that  Woolford's  face  was  set 
in  a  kind  of  straightened  calmness,  albeit  there 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  85 

was  in  his  eyes  the  burning  he  had  marked  there 
many  times  before. 

It  was  with  a  changed  voice  that  the  lawyer 
presently  continued : 

"  That  was  a  good  point  you  made  the  other 
day — I  mean  about  the  string  around  the  car- 
nations. You  found  that  not  a  single  florist  in 
the  city  uses  that  kind  of  string  on  the  flowers 
he  sells.  It  was  very  good  work,  Drake,  but 
you  didn't  go  far  enough." 

"  How  is  that?  "  asked  Drake. 

"  If  you  had  studied  the  carnations  them- 
selves you  would  have  discovered  that  they  were 
unusually  large,  and  that  they  had  certain 
qualities  found  only  in  flowers  grown  in  a  hot- 
house. I  made  a  more  thorough  investigation 
than  you,  and  learned  that  common  grocery- 
store  twine,  like  that  with  which  the  flowers 
were  tied,  is  not  used  in  any  department,  for 
any  purpose,  in  any  of  the  floral  establishments 
of  this  city.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  he 
substituted  common  twine  for  the  string  that 
held  those  carnations  when  they  left  the  green- 
house." 

"  Couldn't  the  substitution  have  been  mere 
chance,  and  not  deliberate  intention  ?  "  asked 
Drake. 

"  It  might  have  been,"  said  Woolford,  read- 


86  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

ily,  "  if  the  substitution  had  been  made  only 
in  the  first  case;  but  recollect,  Drake,  that  the 
carnations  were  in  every  case  precisely  similar, 
that  there  were  thirteen  flowers  in  every  bunch, 
and  the  string  was  always  the  same  in  size, 
colour,  and  texture." 

**  But  he  might  have  got  the  carnations  from 
some  other  place — out  of  the  city,  perhaps, 
or » 

"  No.  They  were  fresh  when  found  lying  by 
the  bodies.  They  could  not  have  been  brought 
from  a  distance.  And  while  they  were  very 
common  species  of  carnations,  they  could  not 
have  been  grown  in  any  other  atmosphere  than 
that  of  a  hothouse.  They  were  grown  either 
in  a  public  greenhouse  or  in  a  private  conserva- 
tory. If  in  the  first,  common  twine  was  not 
used  in  tying  them  together.  As  for  the 
second,  there  are  few  private  conservatories  in 
Denver,  and  their  owners  and  the  other  persons 
who  have  access  to  them  are  entirely  above 
suspicion.  You  can  prove  that  for  yourself, 
if  you  want  to." 

"Well,  then!"  exclaimed  Drake,  "what 
about  the  substitution?  What  is  your  deduc- 
tion.? Does  it  add  anything  to  your  conclu- 
sions?    Is  it " 

"  Why,    man,    it    is    everything ! "    replied 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  87 

Woolford.  "  The  incident  of  the  carnations 
showed  that  the  criminal  is  an  extraordinary 
man,  but  the  substitution  of  the  string  marks 
him  for  a  master  in  cunning.  It  suggests  the 
most  subtle  design  the  human  mind  is  capable 
of.  It  is  a  glaring  signboard  pointing  the 
way  to  the  murderer.  It  eliminates  with  one 
word  every  ordinary  man  from  our  considera- 
tion and  singles  out  from  the  extraordinrfry  a 
very  small  class.  It  enables  you  to  draw  a 
mental  picture  of  him^  and  it  gives  you  an  in- 
sight into  his  character.  When  we  come  upon 
the  guilty  person  I  shall  know  him  on  the  in- 
stant and  beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake. 
In  those  carnations  the  cunning  of  the  man  has 
overreached  itself,  if  we  but  use  our  brains  to 
interpret  their  significance." 

They  were  nearing  Therdier's  place,  and  the 
lawyer  spoke  more  hurriedly,  as  if  to  finish 
quickly  what  he  had  in  mind  to  say. 

"  You  will  readily  recall  the  details  of  the 
Whitechapel  murders,"  he  went  on.  "  That  fiend 
left  on  each  of  his  victims  a  peculiar  bloody 
mark  that  proved  him  to  be  a  brute  thirsting 
for  blood.  The  method  of  his  crimes,  together 
with  their  horrible  surroundings,  showed  almost 
beyond  question  that  he  was  some  sailor  insane 
with  a  lust  for  butchery.     But  no  man  ever 


88  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

discovered  a  single  clue  to  his  identity.  So  in 
this  case;  the  carnations  are  a  token  of  a  man 
of  intellect,  education, — and  I  will  even  say, 
refinement.  He  strangled  his  victims,  and  there- 
fore he  did  not  want  to  see  blood  flow.  He 
carried  nothing  away,  though  there  was  money 
on  the  person  of  each  of  his  victims;  and  so 
his  motive  was  not  robbery.  The  carnations 
signify  that  he  carefully  planned  each  crime — 
planned  it  with  calculating,  cold-blooded  craft. 
That  he  was  utterly  fearless,  you  cannot  doubt ; 
and  so  I  might  go  on  from  one  characteristic 
to  another  till  I  had  given  you  his  portrait 
complete  in  every  essential  detail,  and  framed 
in  the  tarnished,  ugly  gilt  of  these  surround- 
ings." 

The  lawyer,  upon  uttering  these  last  words, 
made  a  sweeping  gesture  with  his  arm,  indi- 
cating the  scene  before  them. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  the  French  Quar- 
ter, and  the  vicious  activities  of  the  slums  were 
under  full  headway.  Noises  of  revelry  filtered 
through  the  worm-eaten  walls,  and  harsh 
sounds  burst  unimpeded  through  open  door- 
ways. Paltry,  painted  lamps  dropped  a  dim, 
disreputable  blend  of  colour  upon  the  street, 
and  turned  the  moonbeams  to  a  sickly  yellow. 
Men  and  women  in  all  the  stages  of  intoxica- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  89 

tion  jostled  one  another,  and  bandied  coarse 
abuses  back  and  forth.  And  permeating  all 
was  the  indescribable  odour  of  the  Quarter, 
pungent,  sickening,  and  suggestive.  A  bit  of 
burning  punk  in  a  Chinese  shop  filled  Drake's 
nostrils  with  a  grateful  perfume,  and  touched 
to  his  memory  an  incongruous  vision,  like  a 
sweet  interlude  in  a  nightmare's  agony, — a 
fleeting  fancy  of  a  distant  church,  and  pale, 
pure  light  falling  upon  the  heads  of  worship- 
pers,— ^but  in  another  instant  he  had  stubbed 
his  toe  upon  a  jagged  flagstone,  and  turning 
an  involuntary  malediction  into  a  question,  he 
asked : 

"  Do  you  know  any  one  whom  your  descrip- 
tion fits?" 

Woolford  was  silent.  When  he  finally  re- 
plied, his  brow  was  knit,  his  voice  low  and 
sibilant. 

"  There  is  a  man,  Drake,  a  man  who  might 
be  a  murderer,  a  strangler  of  women.  He  has 
accumulated  great  wealth,  is  splendidly  edu- 
cated, speaking  fourteen  languages ;  a  painter 
of  more  than  ordinary  skill ;  a  musician ;  no 
man  in  Denver  a  better  chess-player;  and  is 
well-read  in  the  best  literature.  At  his  best,  he 
is  a  finer  grained  and  brainier  man  than  the 
Dr.  Jekyll  of  Stevenson ;  yet,  I  can  easily  fancy 


90  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

him  a  veritable  Hyde  in  crime.  Now,  marlc 
you,  I  believe  this  man  is  capable  of  having 
committed  these  murders;  but  I  have  not  one 
scrap  of  evidence  against  him." 

"  You  don't  mean "    Drake  was  pointing 

towards  the  house  they  were  fast  approaching. 

Woolford  hesitated.  "  Yes.  Jacques  Ther- 
dier." 


CHAPTER  X 

How  life  was  naught  but  ray  of  sun,  that 
Clove  the  darkness  thick  and  blind. 

The  ravings  of  the  reckless  storm,  the 
Shrieking  of  the  rav'ning  wind. 

— The  Kasidah. 

The  trial  of  Richard  Therdier  had  lasted  full 
three  weeks.  It  was  now  the  final  day  of  the 
stubborn,  strenuous  contest.  None  equal  to  it 
in  virulence  could  be  recalled  by  the  oldest  offi- 
cers or  by  the  most  faithful  frequenters  of  the 
criminal  court  of  Arapahoe  County.  Stung  to 
desperation  by  the  taunts  of  Henry  Woolford, 
the  police  had  marshalled  their  witnesses  in  a 
manner  that  drew  forth  sensational  allegations 
of  perjury  and  persecution;  while  the  district 
attorney,  spurred  by  the  great  reputation  of 
the  counsel  for  defence,  and  deceived  a  bit,  per- 
haps, by  Woolford's  demeanour,  which  was  cold 
and  seemingly  indifferent  through  it  all,  had 
surpassed  himself  in  his  manipulation  of  the 
testimony  and  in  his  arraignment  of  the  pris- 
oner at  the  bar.  Every  day  the  courtroom  had 
been  packed  by  curious,  prurient  spectators; 
and  on  this  terminal  afternoon  the  crowd  was 
91 


92  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

dense,  expectant,  impatient  to  gloat  on  the  con- 
victed and  condemned  Therdier — the  strangler 
of  women. 

The  judge  had  lunched  well,  and  was  now 
settled  in  his  big,  leathern  chair,  resigned  to 
hours  of  oratory.  The  jurors  had  lunched,  not 
quite  so  well,  but  to  their  satisfaction;  their 
countenances  wore  more  cheerful  aspects  than 
they  had  lately  known.  The  prisoner,  sur- 
rounded by  phlegmatic  bailiffs,  had  eaten 
scarcely  at  all,  and  now  sat  limp  and  pale, 
with  eyes  downcast.  A  beam  of  sunlight  broke 
through  a  window-shade,  and  fell  upon  the 
white  face  of  Woolford,  where  he  sat  quiet  and 
introspective  at  the  lawyers'  table.  He  moved 
his  head  a  trifle,  and  looked  at  a  bailiff^,  who  was 
at  that  instant  absorbed  in  an  admiring  study 
of  the  judge.  Feeling  the  lawyer's  gaze  upon 
him  the  bailiff"  turned  precipitately ;  and  hur- 
ried to  adjust  the  blind.  Nothing  escaped  the 
hungry  eyes  of  the  spectators,  over  whom  there 
came  presently  a  hush,  when  the  district  at- 
torney rose,  and  began  to  arrange  the  papers 
on  the  green  cloth  before  him. 

"  You  may  begin,  sir,"  said  the  court. 
The  state's  attorney  certainly  was  at  his  best. 
He  had  studied  the  case  with  thoroughness ;  he 
had  sifted  the  evidence  with  skill,  and,  more  im- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  9S 

portant  than  all  else,  had  convinced  himself  that 
Therdier  was  guilty.  His  speech  to  the  jury 
was  masterly,  impassioned,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
convincing.  As  he  progressed  in  his  narration 
of  the  crime — a  narrative  collaborated  from  the 
testimony  of  many  witnesses,  and  unified  with 
all  the  adroitness  of  a  practised  pleader — ^his 
words  touched  the  very  soul  of  his  hearers ;  and 
drew  from  all  that  volatile  assemblage,  muffled 
exclamations  of  horror,  loathing,  and  hate 
against  the  prisoner.  So  great  was  the  com- 
motion when,  at  the  end  of  two  hours,  he  sat 
down,  mopped  his  brow  and  sank  wearily  into 
his  chair,  that  the  bailiff  was  compelled  to  ham- 
mer violently  on  a  table  to  check  the  applause 
and  the  chorus  of  exultant  cries.  At  that  out- 
burst the  pallor  on  Therdier's  face  deepened 
to  the  livid,  sickly  hue  of  fear;  for  it  was  not 
so  much  an  ej  aculation  of  approval  by  men  and 
women,  as  it  was  the  panting,  passionate  utter- 
ance of  wild  beasts  moved  by  the  lust  for  blood 
— the  sort  of  incoherent  cry  the  swooning  cul- 
prit hears  when  the  mob  hurries  him  to  the 
stake. 

The  mask  of  innocence  or  bravado,  or  what- 
soever thing  it  was,  had  long  since  fallen  from 
Therdier's  face.  He  was  abject.  The  jurors 
looked  at  him  shrivelling  there  in  his  chair.     In 


94  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

that  scrutiny  they  seemed  to  find  the  evidence 
they  sought,  and  asked  themselves :  "  Would 
the  innocent  wear  a  countenance  like  that  ?  " 

Henry  Woolford  stood  up  to  answer  the  in- 
terrogation. Through  all  the  district  attor- 
ney's arguments,  appeals,  and  denunciation,  he 
had  sat  unmoved.  His  face  was  as  still  and  as 
chill  as  a  mountain  lake  at  evening ;  his  manner 
quiet,  almost  indolent ;  only  a  menace  in  his 
deep  grey  eyes  showed  that  he  was  not  inert. 
He  cast  a  slow  and  comprehending  look  around 
the  room,  looked  at  the  posing  judge,  at  the 
cowering  prisoner,  at  the  tumultuous  crowd.  A 
sardonic  smile  tortured  his  lips.  He  watched 
the  spectators  till  one  by  one  they  caught  his 
gaze  and  felt  suddenly  impelled  to  silence;  and 
then,  when  the  noise  had  died  away,  he  faced  the 
jury  and  began  to  speak. 

It  was  a  gentle,  caressing  voice,  almost  list- 
less, and  so  very  low  at  first  that  the  jurors 
leaned  forward  to  hear  him;  but  for  all  its 
dulcet  softness,  the  tone  had  some  thin  fibre 
in  it  that  shivered  and  tingled  on  the  ear  like 
singing  slivers  of  steel.  The  state's  attorney 
had  flattered  and  thanked  the  jury;  but  Wool- 
ford  used  no  cajoleries.  With  a  few  simple, 
sterilising  sentences,  he  swept  away  the  heated 
mass  of  sentiment  and  heroics  that  had  been  pre- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  96 

pared  to  feed  the  jurors'  virtuous  prejudices. 
He  compelled  them  to  realise  that  justice  does 
not  thrive  on  vicarious  sacrifice;  that  she  does 
not  demand  the  blood  even  of  the  vilest  wretch, 
if  that  wretch  be  guiltless  of  the  particular 
offence  for  which  revenge  is  sought.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  canonise  his  client,  did  not  try 
to  magnify  his  virtues,  did  not  seek  to  minimise 
his  faults;  but  told  the  jury  just  who  and 
what  his  client  was — a  foreigner,  ignorant  and 
brutal. 

His  voice,  by  imperceptible  degrees,  had 
changed,  hardened,  lifted.  As  he  went  on,  he 
was  transformed.  His  muscular  figure  became 
erect ;  his  eyes  glistened ;  and  the  little  red  spot 
kindling  in  his  cheek  was  like  the  glow  of  a 
furnace  door,  which  tells  of  melting  energy 
within.  Bit  by  bit,  he  took  the  testimony  and 
threw  it  all  away.  He  held  the  police  up  to 
such  convulsing  ridicule  that  the  judge  must 
hide  his  face.  The  audience  tittered;  the  dis- 
trict attorney  gnawed  the  edges  of  his  lip.  He 
made  a  pitiable  joke  of  the  negro  boy — ^the 
proud  eye-witness  of  the  murder.  Of  all  the 
prosecution's  elaborate  structure  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  he  left  not  one  stick  or  stone 
in  place,  but  wrecked,  demolished,  and  ground 
it  to  powder.     Then  he  shifted  from  sarcasm, 


96  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

ridicule,  and  invective;  his  voice  dropped  to  its 
lowest  register,  and  he  dealt  in  terms  of  vice, 
misery,  and  horror.  Faces  around  him  sobered, 
blanched,  twisted,  as  he  told  of  the  utter  absence 
of  reason  for  the  death  of  Diane  Therdier. 
With  consummate  skill  he  combated  the  theory 
that  Diane  Therdier  had  obtained  secrets  so  im- 
portant that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  make 
away  with  her.  He  took  his  hearers  to  the  scene 
of  the  murder,  and  into  the  house  of  Richard 
Therdier.  He  explained  thoroughly  the  way  it 
was  arranged,  and  showed  conclusively  the  ease 
with  which  the  prisoner  or  his  confreres  could 
have  taken  the  body  out  of  the  house,  through 
the  alley,  and  beyond,  where  it  would  never  have 
been  heard  of  again.  After  that,  he  dwelt 
on  the  outre  features  of  the  stranglings — the 
secrecy,  the  mystery;  the  flowers,  the  string; 
the  terror  and  unreahty  of  it  all. 

While  his  hearers  sat  amazed,  transfixed,  and 
breathless  he  walked  over  to  a  table  on  which 
were  displayed  all  the  ghastly  evidences  of  the 
crime.  He  looked  at  the  stain  upon  the  pillow ; 
lifted  the  silken  gown  with  two  fingers — ^held  it 
a  minute,  and  let  it  fall  again;  then,  as  if  his 
imagination  had  been  heightened,  in  a  solemn, 
vibrating  voice,  he  drew  for  them  the  picture  of 
a  madman,  impelled  by  an  insane  desire  to  kill. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  97 

"  An  impulse,"  he  said,  "  overpowering  and 
all-compelling — a  force,  as  irresistible  and  as 
frigid  as  a  glacier,  seized  the  man  to  kill — to 
kill  a  woman.  We  may  suppose  that  for  days 
he  fought  and  struggled  with  it;  that  his  soul 
revolted.  Impossible,  it  was  too  strong.  It 
grew,  and  raged,  and  pressed  down  upon  his 
reason,  till  it  crushed  and  dominated  him. 
Then  he  ceased  to  resist — yielded — and  began 
to  plan  the  crime  with  all  the  cunning  of  a 
maniac.  And  while  he  planned,  whether  he  slept 
or  waked,  always  there  was  before  him  the  vision 
of  a  woman,  beautiful,  voluptuous,  with  great 
moist  eyes,  and  with  red  lips  quivering  with 
emotion,  urging,  pleading,  imploring  him  to  do 
this  thing — to  kill  her. 

"  The  hour  approached  when  he  must.  He 
had  not  neglected  the  slightest  detail  of  his 
subtle,  wily  design.  He  selected  his  victim  with 
deliberation.  He  passed  Diane  Therdier's  house ; 
the  woman  was  alone.  He  entered;  then  the 
demon  in  him  broke  loose.  The  moment  had 
come.  His  blood  ran  hot  and  cold ;  his  eyes 
flamed  with  frenzy ;  the  room  swam  around  him ; 
a  mist  enveloped  everything — everything  but 
the  white  neck  of  the  woman — the  white  and 
pleading  neck  of  his  vision.  He  seized  her  by 
the  throat.     She  tried  to  scream;  the  sound 


98  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

died  away  in  a  death-rattle.  He  threw  her  on 
the  bed ;  his  fingers  tightened  around  her  throat ; 
his  sinews  were  like  steel ;  his  body  quivered  with 
exultation.  He  was  doing  well  the  thing  he  had 
to  do.  The  woman's  limbs  relaxed,  her  breath- 
ing ceased,  the  tongue  protruded.  It  was  all 
over.  No,  not  yet!  A  little  crimson  stream 
burst  from  her  mouth.  The  sight  of  it  was  re- 
pugnant— was  alien  to  the  preconception  of  the 
deed.  Coolly  and  deftly  he  bound  a  handker- 
chief around  her  throat;  then  he  looked  at  her 
long  and  critically,  one  knee  still  upon  the  bed 
beside  her,  leaned  over  and  put  his  ear  upon  her 
breast.  Her  heart  was  still.  He  stood  erect, 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  and  felt  his 
blood  receding,  his  nerves  becoming  firm.  He 
stepped  before  the  mirror,  and  while  adjusting 
his  cravat,  saw  that  his  face  was  pale.  He  had 
passed  through  a  frenzy,  a  convulsion,  a  cruci- 
fixion. Now,  he  was  himself  again.  And  be- 
fore leaving  that  house  to  disappear  in  the  even- 
ing's heedless  throng,  he  did  not  forget  to  make 
his  signature — to  attest  the  deed — to  mark  the 
method  in  his  madness.  He  placed  a  bunch  of 
thirteen  red  carnations  by  her  side." 

Men  paled;  women's  faces  were  distorted 
with  hysteria,  and  a  long-drawn  sigh  quavered 
through  the  courtroom.     The  twelve  men  in  the 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  «9 

box,  long  since  convinced  by  his  magnetism  and 
eloquence,  were  now  spellbound  and  helpless, 
like  the  fantastically  posed  subjects  of  a  hyp- 
notist. No  evidence  could  have  moved  them 
now. 

Woolford,  placing  his  hands  on  the  railing 
of  the  jury-box,  looked  into  the  rapt  and  dis- 
tracted faces  before  him,  and  concluded  in  a 
voice  that  was  filled  with  total  weariness  and 
infinite  appeal: 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury!  I  have  told  you 
this  strangler  was  a  madman.  Look  at  the 
prisoner!  Is  he  mad.''  Look  at  him,  I  say, 
and  tell  the  world  that  Richard  Therdier  is  not 
guilty!" 

He  stood  still,  searching  the  faces  of  the 
jurors,  while  they  obeyed  him,  and  looked  be- 
yond him  at  the  prisoner,  Therdier.  All  eyes 
but  Woolford's  followed  their  gaze — all  eyes 
obeyed,  and  saw — by  what  magic  who  can  tell? 
— the  face  of  Therdier  altered,  immaculate 
shining  as  the  sun.  The  prisoner  sat  erect,  his 
eyes  calmly  meeting  all  that  concentrated 
scrutiny,  his  whole  self  declaring  hope — aye, 
the  certainty  of  salvation.  He  too  was  under 
the  spell  of  that  oratory. 

Woolford  sat  down.  The  prosecution  had 
the  closing  speech;  but  not  once  again  did  the 


100  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

district  attorney  hold  the  attention  of  the  jury- 
men. He  made  a  gallant  effort  to  destroy  the 
stark  impression  Woolford's  speech  had  made; 
he  strove  to  recall  to  the  jury's  minds  the  testi- 
mony offered "  against  the  prisoner,  and  to  re- 
mind them  of  the  simple  demands  of  justice.  He 
endeavoured  to  be  humble,  and  to  stand  there 
as  the  instrument  of  the  law,  rather  than  the 
ambitious  lawyer,  striving  for  mere  victory ;  but 
all  in  vain.  The  jurymen,  as  often  as  he  ap- 
pealed to  them  more  vehemently,  turned  their 
gaze  again  toward  Woolford.  It  is  doubtful 
if  they  followed  the  reasoning,  or  were  even 
touched  by  the  pleading  of  the  district  attor- 
ney, in  his  closing  speech.  Woolford  had  set- 
tled the  thing  for  them  long  before. 

In  despair,  preserving  his  poise  with  difficulty, 
the  district  attorney  took  his  seat.  The  jury- 
men retired  in  the  bailiff's  care,  and  the  audience 
was  numb  and  voiceless,  still  beneath  the  spell. 
The  judge  looked  mechanically  at  his  watch, 
then  at  the  clock  upon  the  wall ;  and  even  as  he 
looked,  and  when  the  hands  had  marked  off 
scarce  three  minutes'  time,  and  while  the  spec- 
tators were  still  breathing  hard,  the  jury  came 
in  again,  and  was  seated. 

"  Grentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed 
upon  a  verdict?  "  asked  the  judge. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  101 

"  We  have,"  said  the  foreman,  rising  to  his 
feet. 

"  The  clerk  will  read  the  verdict." 

"  Not  guilty !  " 

The  audience,  for  half  a  minute,  was  as  still 
as  a  forest  before  a  storm.  In  that  interval, 
the  bailiff  adjourned  the  court;  and  in  an- 
other instant  the  storm  had  broken  loose.  Men 
and  women,  who  a  little  while  before  were  eager 
to  tear  the  prisoner  to  pieces,  now  howled  their 
approval  and  shrieked  their  mad  delight.  The 
shout  that  went  up  shook  the  building. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  Woolford 
slipped  away. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

— BOUROILLOK. 

**  I  WAS  just  wishing  you  would  come,"  said 
Marcia,  "  when  the  bell  rang — and  it  was  you 
— exactly  like  a  good  spirit  in  the  Arabian 
Nights." 

"  I  hope  I'll  always  have  the  good  sense  to 
respond  when  you  rub  the  magic  lamp,"  Drake 
replied,  as  she  pressed  his  hand  to  welcome  him. 
He  noticed,  at  a  glance,  that  all  the  famihar 
animation  was  gone  from  her  face;  that  there 
were  traces  of  tears ;  and  he  felt  a  sudden 
prompting  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her 
how  truly  sorry  he  was.  "  You're  very  tired, 
aren't  you?  "  he  asked,  uneasily. 

"  I'm  worn  out,"  she  cried,  dejectedly.  "  Let 
us  sit  out  here  on  the  verandah,  the  night  is 
warm ; "  and  she  settled  back  in  a  comfortable 
chair. 

Drake,  seating  himself  beside  her,  asked,  in 
a  voice  that  was  filled  with  solicitude :  "  What 
102 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  103 

is  it?     Tell  me — I'd  like  to  help  you.     May 
I?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how,  unless — ^unless  you  tell 
me  a  story,  as  you  would  to  a  child  in  the  nurs- 
ery, whose  tears  you  would  drive  away."  She 
laughed,  and  then  added  somewhat  sadly: 
"  Henry  has  been  at  home  since  the  trial,  and  I 
have  hardly  left  his  side.  He  has  not  been  able 
to  sleep  till  a  little  while  ago;  but  he's  resting 
now.  The  doctor  says  he'll  sleep  several  hours. 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  dreadful  case  is  settled! 
How  I  have  hated  it !  " 

Both  were  silent  till  Drake  spoke  again.  He 
was  thinking  not  so  much  of  Henry's  suffering 
as  of  Marcia's  distress.  He  halted,  searching 
for  the  right  words  to  express  his  sympathy; 
but  he  could  only  gaze  at  her  and  trust  that  she 
would  know. 

"  But  we  must  all  have  our  share  of  unhap- 
piness,"  she  continued ;  "  and  I  suppose  a  little 
sorrow  is  good  for  us.  It  makes  us  look  seri- 
ously at  things,  and  drives  some  of  the  selfish- 
ness away." 

They  sat  a  long  time  in  silence  watching  the 
summer  sunset,  while  the  mountains  changed 
from  sunny  picture  to  purple  silhouette ;  watched 
while  the  sun,  hke  a  red-cheeked  boy,  all  tired 
out  from  his  day's  romp  across  the  world,  turn- 


104  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

bled  into  his  gorgeous  bedchamber  in  the  west; 
watched  while  the  winds  from  the  opiate  Orient 
packed  his  couch  with  cloud-pillows  as  rich  and 
evanescent  as  the  Golden  Fleece;  watched  while 
the  night,  old  nature's  immemorial  nurse,  drew 
the  silken  curtains  of  his  aerial  bed  in  success- 
ive folds  of  flame,  saffron  and  violet;  watched 
while  the  after-glow,  the  tired  boy's  good-night 
smile,  faded  from  salmon-pink  to  rosy  pearl,  and 
went  out  at  last  in  a  silvery  blue  obhvion. 

"  *  Behind  the  hills,  that's  where  the  fairies  are; 
Behind  the  hills,  that's  where  the  sun  goes  down.' " 

It  was  Marcia  speaking  softly.  She  had 
leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  supported  by  her  half- 
clasped  hands,  her  dark  eyes  darkening  more^ 
as  with  the  shadows  of  a  dream.  The  sun's 
touch  lingered  in  her  hair  long  after  the  sun 
himself  had  gone  to  sleep.  Drake,  studying 
her  mood,  made  the  inward  comment  that  he 
liked  her  thus  best  of  all.  To-night,  more  than 
ever,  he  felt  moved  to  tell  her  many  things  he 
had  never  told  her  before — ^had  never  thought  of 
telling.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  suf- 
fered and  was  still  in  trouble. 

"  Behind  the  hills !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  We'd 
all  like  to  know  what  is  behind  the  hills.  I  read 
once,  somewhere,  that  we're  all,  in  our  hearts. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  105 

no  different  from  our  primeval  ancestors — all 
nomads.  We're  only  staying  a  little  while, 
that's  all.  Moving,  seeking,  never  resting, 
never  truly  finding.  Don't  you  always  feel  as 
if  you  must  jump  on  the  train  when  you  see  it 
starting  for — well,  for  anywhere?  " 

Drake  did  not  answer  quickly ;  but  leaned  over 
and  put  one  hand  on  the  back  of  Marcia's  chair. 
The  breeze  had  loosened  a  few  tresses  of  her 
hair,  and  his  fingers  touched  them.  Then  he 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper : 

"  '  Over  the  world  and  under  the  world. 
And  back  at  the  last  to  you.' " 

For  a  minute  Marcia  was  still.  Then,  she 
threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  ever  so  softly. 

"  That's  a  Romany  lass  and  a  Romany  lad 
you're  speaking  of.     I'm  not  a  gipsy,  sir !  " 

"  But  the  trail  holds  true,  Marcia,  the  wide 
world  over." 

She  did  not  laugh  this  time,  but  after  a  slight 
pause,  went  on  somewhat  hastily :  "  I  wonder 
what  there  is  in  a  sunset  that  makes  us  want 
things — long  for  we  know  not  what — ache  for 
something  that  we  know  in  our  hearts  is  not  to 
be  had  by  us.  Now,  a  sunrise  never  makes  me 
.  feel  that  way,  and  I  have  seen  it  rise  over  the 
mountains,  out  of  the  sea,  and  in  all  sorts  of 
places.     It  is  all  so  strange !  " 


106  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  a 
sunrise,  except  sometimes  from  the  wrong  side 
of  it." 

"  The  wrong  side  of  it  ?  "  repeated  Marcia,  in 
astonishment. 

"  Yes.  I'm  often  at  work  all  night,  and 
don't  get  to  bed  till  after  the  sun  is  up.  That's 
seeing  it  from  the  wrong  side,  isn't  it.?  " 

"  How  very  queer  it  must  seem,"  Marcia  said, 
laughing. 

Drake  mused  a  little. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Charles  Lamb  says 
about  night  ?  "  he  asked,  presently.  "  He's  a 
favourite  of  yours,  and  you  should  remember. 
Something  about  the  miseries  of  our  ancestors 
wintering  in  caves.  Night  was  a  horrid  thing 
then,  I'll  admit.  Who  could  be  merry  when 
you  couldn't  distinguish  the  olives  from  the 
oysters !  Lamb  says  jokes  came  in  with  candles. 
Let  us  go  on  and  say  that  song  came  with  the 
oil-lamps,  good-fellowship  was  ushered  in  by 
gaslight,  and  the  after-dinner  speech  owes  its 
perfection  to  the  incandescent." 

"  Then  the  progress  of  man  may  be  meas- 
ured by  the  successive  steps  in  artificial  light- 
ing.?    Is  that  it?"  broke  in  Marcia. 

"  Quite  so.  We  have  cheated  the  night," 
continued  he,  "  in  much  the  same  way  the  Hoi- 


MARCIA 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  107 

landers  cheated  the  sea."  Suddenly  he  rose  to 
his  feet.  "  If  you  want  to  realise  what  a 
wonder-worker  artificial  light  has  been,  just 
imagine  that  none  has  ever  been  invented.  Look 
down  yonder  now :  Denver  at  night !  " 

Drake  gave  his  hand  to  Marcia  and  she  stood 
beside  him.  They  looked  a  minute  or  two,  and 
then  walked  down  the  path  to  the  middle  of  the 
lawn  and  stood  there  to  gaze  upon  the  enchant- 
ing scene.  Below  them,  where  the  massive  busi- 
ness buildings  lay  piled  one  upon  another  in  the 
night,  few  lights  were  visible;  but  a  blue-white 
mist  shivered  along  the  house-tops.  On  the  left 
of  this  huge  patch  of  glowing  shadow,  a  street 
stretched  straight  away  before  them  for  miles 
and  miles,  its  arc-lamps  dwindling  like  gradu' 
ated  diamonds  on  a  dangled  strand.  Here  and 
there  to  the  north  and  south,  little  clusters  of 
lights  peeped  from  among  the  houses  and  the 
trees  like  jewels  among  the  laces  of  a  woman's 
bosom.  But  far  beyond  the  city  proper, 
against  the  heaving  background  of  the  moun- 
tains, where  the  suburbs  perched  upon  the  hills 
— there  the  lamps  dotted  the  horizon  with  fan- 
tastic figures:  circles,  serpents,  spangles,  and 
many  eccentric  designs,  all  of  a  hue — the  blue- 
white,  chill  and  scintillating  hue  of  the  electric 
spark. 


108         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

**  I  have  looked  at  it  night  after  night,  and 
I  think  it  is  beautiful,"  said  Marcia,  with  en- 
thusiasm ;  "  but  electricity  to  me  somehow  seems 
depressing,  cheerless." 

"  And  yet,  it  is  more  generous  than  the  sun," 
ventured  Drake,  neatly.  "  Under  the  shaded 
lamp  my  lady's  wrinkles  disappear,  and  the 
lashes  of  her  dreamy  eyes  grow  darker. 
The " 

*'  The  moon  and  the  stars,  the  shadows,  and 
even  sleep  are  all  friendly  to  our  gentler  selves," 
broke  in  Marcia,  gaily. 

"  Sleep !  "  repeated  Drake ;  "  the  only  good 
thing  I  can  say  for  that  old  villain  Macbeth 
is  that  he  murdered  it.  What  a  pity  he  didn't 
make  a  better  job  of  it!  Life  is  so  short, 
Marcia,  and  there  are  so  many  things  one 
might  do,  see,  and  know,  if  one  only  had  time 
enough." 

"  Yes.  Think  of  the  books  unread,  and  the 
pictures  unseen,"  declared  Marcia. 

"  And  the  fortunes  that  are  unfound,  the 
fame  that  beckons  us  in  vain,  the  songs  unsung, 
of  all  that  is  missed  and  lost  by  us  for  ever,  be- 
cause we  must  snore  away  one-third  of  our 
precious  hours.  And,  in  spite  of  all  this,  most 
of  us  go  tumbling  into  our  beds  every  night  as 
if  sleep  were  about  to  be  abolished,  and  we  were 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  109 

compelled  to  store  up  a  supply  against  the" 
years." 

"  And  there  is  really  little  need  to  worry 
about  it,"  remarked  Marcia,  dreamily ;  "  there 
is  plenty  of  it  coming — at  the  end." 

A  stillness  fell  upon  them.  Drake,  looking 
at  her,  saw  all  the  lights  of  the  city,  of  the  sky, 
and  another  light  that  "  never  was  on  sea  or 
land "  pure  and  steadfast  in  her  eyes.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  her  lips  parted,  tears  glistened 
in  her  eyes.  He  seized  both  her  hands  in  his ; 
and  she  did  not  resist.  Her  gaze  quickened 
and  fascinated  him ;  and  for  many  a  day  there- 
after her  face,  as  it  looked  at  that  moment,  was 
before  him.  It  haunted  his  dreams — the  sweet- 
est and  loveliest  vision  he  had  ever  known. 

"  You  are  hurting  my  hand !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Her  voice  seemed  to  be  a  long  way  off,  as  if  it 
came  lifting  over  many  odorous  fields  of  sum- 
mer to  rouse  him  where  he  slept  upon  a  bank 
of  violets,  by  a  chiming  stream,  dreaming  the 
most  beautiful  dreams.  Slowly,  he  realised  that 
he  was  crushing  her  fingers  in  his  grasp ;  and  he 
dropped  her  hands  reluctantly. 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  at  last  by  the 
servant  calling  and  saying  that  Henry  had 
awakened.  Drake  grudgingly  led  her  to  the 
door  and  bade  her  good-night. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  But  'e  run  'is  'and  up  to  the  top  button  of  'is  shootin'- 
coat — an'  loosed  it.  '  Thank  you,  sir,'  I  sez.  '  I'd  like  that 
very  well,'  I  sez,  an'  both  our  coats  was  off  an'  put  down." 

— RUDYARD   KlPLIirO. 

Heeo-worship  is  not  one  of  the  notable  traits 
of  character  in  newspaper  reporters,  but  loy- 
alty and  enthusiasm  are  common  qualities  that 
need  but  the  fit  occasion  for  the  proving. 
Drake  never  sought  to  be  popular,  and,  indeed, 
had  even  neglected  to  take  the  first  steps 
toward  popularity;  yet,  about  this  time,  there 
occurred  an  incident  which  led  his  fellows  to 
discover  an  unexpected  phase  of  his  character, 
and  made  of  him,  willy-nilly,  an  idol  of  at  least 
a  day  and  an  hour. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  and  in  the  local 
room  the  reporters  were  handing  in  the  last 
pages  of  their  copy,  when  Murphy  limped 
laboriously  through  the  door.  His  clothing 
was  disordered ;  his  shirt  was  torn  and  bloody ; 
one  lip  was  disreputably  swollen,  and  one  eye 
was  closed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Murphy?"  cried  the 
110 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  Ill 

sporting  editor,  who  sat  near  the  door,  leaping 
to  his  feet  in  alarm.  "  You  haven't  been  fool 
enough  to  get  mixed  up  with  a  trolley-car,  have 
you  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  the  matter,"  answered  Murphy, 
suppressing  a  groan.  *'  Just  had  a  little  dif- 
ference of  opinion  with  a  gentleman,  that's  all." 

"  Who  ?  "  exclaimed  half  a  dozen  eager  re- 
porters. 

"  O'Hoohhan." 

**  Not  that  big,  raw-boned  policeman  on  the 
tenderloin  beat .''  "  said  the  sporting  editor. 

"  Yep." 

All  stared  at  Murphy  in  curious  amazement 
as  he  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  What  was  the  trouble  ? "  asked  Arm- 
strong. 

*'  I  called  him  a  liar." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"  I  may  have  emphasised  it  a  little,"  admitted 
Murphy.  "  Think  I  did  add  a  few  other 
names." 

He  put  his  red-stained  handkerchief  ten- 
derly on  his  lip,  and  looked  as  critically  as  he 
could  with  one  eye  to  see  if  the  blood  had  ceased 
to  flow. 

"But  what  did  he  do.?"  asked  the  religious 
editor. 


112  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

**  Can't  you  see,  you  fool ! "  retorted 
Murphy,  with  acid  emphasis. 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  what  did  you 
call  him  a  liar  for?"  explained  the  religious 
editor,  in  some  confusion. 

"  Nothin'." 

"  But  he  must  have  done  something  to " 

"  Look  here,  you  fellows ! "  cried  Murphy, 
with  a  slight  show  of  resentment,  "  I  didn't 
come  up  here  to  be  cross-examined.  I  came  to 
tell  Mr.  Armstrong  I  want  to  go  home.  If 
you  want  to  know  what  happened,  ask  O'Hooli- 
han.     He'll  tell  you." 

Armstrong  hastily  provided  Murphy  with 
an  order  for  a  carriage,  after  having  learned 
from  him  that  the  police  surgeon  had  examined 
his  wounds  and  found  none  of  them  to  be 
serious.  Then,  when  Murphy  had  gone,  he 
despatched  a  reporter  to  the  police  station  to 
find  out  what  had  occurred  to  bring  such  com- 
plete discomfiture  to  Murphy.  Twenty  min- 
utes later  the  reporter,  breathless  with  hurry- 
ing and  almost  speechless  with  indignation,  re- 
turned, and  related  to  the  group  around  the 
city  editor's  desk  the  sad,  brief  story  of  the 
disaster. 

"  You  see,  O'Hoolihan  has  been  crazy  over 
the  roasts  he's  been  getting,  and  to-night,  after 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  113 

he'd  read  Drake's  article  in  this  morning's — 
I  mean  yesterday  morning's  paper,  he  came  up 
to  headquarters,  and  tore  around,  and  called 
the  man  who  wrote  the  stuff  everything  he 
could  turn  his  tongue  to.  Murphy  stood  it 
for  quite  a  while;  but  finally,  when  O'Hoolihan 
had  repeated  for  the  twentieth  time  that  the 
reporter  who  wrote  the  article  was  a  liar,  a 
coward,  a  skunk,  and  several  other  things, 
Murphy  got  excited,  and  I  guess  he  did  tell 
O'Hoolihan  some  things  in  picturesque  and 
forcible  language.  Anyway,  before  the  other 
policemen  could  interfere,  he  had  beaten 
Murphy  all  up  and  kicked  him  down  a  flight 
of  stairs.     The  big  stiff!     We've  got " 

"  Can't  we  have  him  arrested.'*  "  suggested  a 
young  reporter,  in  wrathful  simplicity. 

**  Naw.  You  can't  do  anything  to  a  police- 
man ! "  said  another. 

"  Can't  we  make  it  so  hot  for  him  the  police 
commissioners  will  have  to  fire  him.'' "  sug- 
gested the  sporting  editor. 

"  That  wouldn't  just  do,"  said  Armstrong. 
"  He  may  have  a  family  to  support." 

Drake,  who  up  to  this  time  had  remained 
silent  and  thoughtful,  now  moved  toward  the 
door,  and  took  his  hat  from  its  hook  on  the 
wall. 


114  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  he  said, 
quietly,  "  and  that  is  to  go  down  there  and 
give  him  as  bad  a  licking  as  he  gave  Murphy; 
and  I'm  the  one  to  do  it.  It  was  my  stuff  in 
the  paper  that  caused  the  trouble." 

"  But  he'd  kill  you ! "  was  the  chorus  of  ob- 
jection. 

"  I  guess  it  wouldn't  be  as  bad  as  that.  At 
any  rate,  it's  got  to  be  done ;  and  I'm  going  to 
try  it." 

"  Well,  wait  till  the  paper's  off,  and  we'll 
all  go  down  there,"  suggested  the  city  editor; 
and  to  this  Drake  assented. 

His  coolness  half  reassured  the  others;  but 
nevertheless  it  was  with  great  doubt  and  fore- 
boding that  the  entire  local  staff,  as  soon  as 
the  paper  had  gone  to  press,  proceeded  to  the 
police  station.  When  Drake  announced  his 
mission  to  the  night  captain,  that  good- 
natured  officer  simply  laughed. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Drake,"  he  said,  "  O'Hoohhan 
'd  make  ye  look  as  if  ye'd  gone  through  a 
threshing  machine;  and  besides,  I've  repri- 
manded him,  and  it  won't  occur  again." 

*'  I'm  sorry,  captain,  but  I  must  see  O'Hooli- 
han ;  and  if  you  won't  let  me,  we'll  wait  on  the 
sidewalk  till  he  comes  out." 

"  Well,  if  ye're  bound  to  git  a  lickin',  boy, 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  115 

come  back  into  the  exercisin'  room,  an'  we'll 
stand  by,  and  see  he  don't  hurt  ye  too  much. 
But  mind,  now,  I  warned  ye.  He'll  sure  bate 
ye  up  so  your  own  mother  won't  know  ye." 

In  the  exercise-room  they  found  O'Hoolihan, 
with  several  other  officers  of  the  night  reserve. 
Four  of  them  sat  at  a  confiscated  gambling- 
table  engaged  in  a  mild  game  of  seven-up;  two 
others  were  talking  politics,  and  the  rest  of 
them  lounged  about  the  room  trying  to  keep 
awake.  The  coming  of  the  captain  and  the 
solemn  reporters  was  a  welcome  diversion. 
When  the  captain  told  O'Hoolihan  that  a  boy 
from  the  newspaper  office  had  come  down  to 
square  the  account  for  Murphy,  the  muscular 
Irishman  uttered  a  guffaw,  and  the  other 
policemen  joined  uproariously  in  the  mirth. 
But  Drake  stepped  forward,  looked  O'Hooli- 
han over,  from  head  to  feet,  and  then  said, 
coolly  and  distinctly: 

"  Mister  O'Hoolihan," — with  a  goading 
stress  on  the  long-drawn  "  mister," — "  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  am  the  reporter  who  wrote 
that  stuff.  I  am  convinced  that  you  lied  on 
the  witness-stand  in  the  Therdier  trial;  that 
you  were  bribed,  and  that  you  have  shown 
yourself  to  be  a  coward  and  a  thief." 

There  was  silence.     For  a  minute  O'Hooli- 


116  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

han  stood  still,  and  looked  at  Drake.  Then 
the  full  meaning  of  Drake's  words  became  clear 
to  him,  and  his  red  face  blazed  with  anger.  He 
started  to  reply,  but  the  oaths  stuck  in  his 
throat,  and  he  was  incoherent  with  swift  rage. 
Suddenly  he  lunged  forward,  and  his  right  fist 
swung  out  for  Drake's  head  with  a  force  that, 
had  the  blow  landed,  would  have  ended  in- 
stantly all  his  aspirations  to  chastise  police- 
men. But  Drake  ducked  his  head  barely  in 
time,  and  the  momentum  of  the  misspent  blow 
carried  O'Hoolihan  staggering  across  the 
room.  Bellowing  with  fury,  O'Hoolihan  gath- 
ered himself  to  fall  upon  Drake  and  annihilate 
him;  but  before  he  could  reach  the  reporter, 
several  policemen  had  grabbed  him,  and  others 
had  surrounded  Drake. 

"  Look  here,  young  fellow ! "  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  ye've  insulted  O'Hoolihan,  and  now 
ye've  got  to  take  a  lickin'  unless  he  wants  to 
call  it  off.  As  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  for- 
givin'  just  now,  we'll  see  it's  all  done  regular, 
and  ye  don't  get  hurt  too  bad.  Boys,  make 
a  ring,  and  if  the  kid  lasts  three  minutes  we'll 
call  it  a  round,  and  make  'em  rest  three;  and 
then  they  can  go  at  it  again  till  the  young 
man  learns  to  respect  his  elders." 

In  that  brief  interval  of  preparation  Drake 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  117 

had  time  to  make  a  swift  review  of  his  athletic 
achievements;  and  as  he  stripped  to  meet  the 
O'Hoolihan,  he  marvelled  vaguely  at  the  fore- 
sight he  had  displayed  in  learning  certain 
tricks  with  his  hands,  which  now  had  suddenly 
become  the  most  important  things  in  the  world. 
They  stepped  into  the  ring  improvised  for 
them  by  the  circle  of  policemen  and  reporters; 
and  O'Hoolihan  glowered  upon  Drake  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  inspire 
terror  in  the  heart  of  every  living  thing  that 
crossed  his  beat.  O'Hoolihan  started  the  bat- 
tle with  a  rush.  Drake  stepped  aside,  and 
as  the  big  fellow  went  past,  landed  the  first 
blow  squarely  on  his  mouth.  The  policeman 
staggered  a  little;  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  pain  appeared  upon  his  face;  and  as  he 
whirled  to  meet  Drake  again  his  huge  arms 
went  up  more  cautiously.  Once  more  he 
rushed,  and  again  Drake  hit  him ;  but  this  time 
O'Hoolihan  turned  quickly,  and  his  big  right 
fist  struck  Drake's  shoulder,  dropping  him  full- 
length  upon  the  floor.  If  this  mighty  blow 
had  struck  Drake's  head  or  a  vulnerable  part 
of  his  body,  the  fight  would  have  ended  then 
and  there.  As  it  happened,  the  blow  did  not 
hurt  much,  and  Drake  was  on  his  feet  In  an 
instant,   none   the   worse   for   the   knockdown. 


118  ART  THOU  THE  MAN? 

Again  and  again  O'Hoolihan  rushed,  and  every 
time  Drake  ducked  or  sidestepped  to  avoid  the 
worst  of  the  vicious  swings.  At  every  charge 
Drake  watched  his  antagonist  more  closely, 
and  presently  the  blows  he  planted  on  the  big 
man's  face  and  over  his  heart  began  to  tell. 
Meanwhile,  Drake  was  not  escaping  punish- 
ment. Already  his  nose  was  bleeding,  and 
there  was  a  gash  over  his  right  eye.  When 
the  police  captain  stepped  between  them,  and 
announced  that  one  round  was  ended,  both  men 
were  dazed  and  struggling  for  breath. 

"  You're  groggy,  O'Hoolihan !  The  kid's 
lickin'  you ! "  yelled  a  policeman. 

"  Naw,  he  ain't !  He's  just  play  in'  with  the 
boy ! "  declared  another.  O'Hoolihan  said 
nothing. 

The  Record  contingent  was  jubilant.  Drake 
had  lasted  one  round,  at  any  rate,  and  that 
was  more  than  even  the  most  hopeful  of  his 
friends  had  dared  to  expect.  They  ministered 
to  his  wounds,  and  encouraged  him  in  low 
tones,  and  exhorted  him,  for  the  honour  of  the 
staff,  to  make  an  object-lesson  of  O'Hoolihan. 
Drake  smiled  grimly,  and  abstained  from 
boasting. 

The  second  round  began  all  the  policeman's 
way.     He  got  Drake  into  a  comer,  and  with  a 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  119 

veritable  avalanche  of  savage  blows  beat  him  to 
the  floor. 

*'  It's  all  over ! "  exclaimed  the  sporting  edi- 
tor; and  O'Hoolihan  thought  so  too.  But 
almost  before  the  words  were  spoken,  and  be- 
fore the  Irishman  could  place  himself  again  in 
a  defensive  posture,  Drake  leaped  to  his  feet, 
rushed,  for  the  first  time  since  the  fight  had 
started,  and  landed  what  the  sporting  ed- 
itor later  described  as  "  a  beautiful  left  hook  " 
fairly  on  the  policeman's  jaw.  Instantly 
he  followed  it  up  with  a  straight  right-hand 
blow  that  hit  O'Hoolihan  full  in  the  pit  of 
the  stomach.  A  look  of  ludicrous  and  pitiable 
agony  twisted  the  face  of  O'Hoolihan;  paral- 
ysis limbered  his  knees;  the  weight  of  his  fists 
was  too  much  for  his  arms  to  bear.  As  he 
began  to  collapse,  Drake  dealt  one  more 
quick  jab  with  all  his  strength  on  the  police- 
man's half -open  mouth  and  sent  him  toppling 
over. 

But  O'Hoolihan  was  not  whipped.  Before 
the  captain  could  count  ten,  he  was  on  his  feet 
and  tearing  at  Drake  like  a  wild  beast.  For 
two  minutes  they  fought  around  the  ring, 
Drake  landing  blow  after  blow  with  apparently 
no  effect,  O'Hoolihan  marking  Drake  every 
time  he  hit  him.     The  round  ended  with  Drake 


120  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

badly  battered  up,  but  still  confident  and 
strong. 

The  third  and  last  round  was  a  terrific  one. 
The  Record  men  lost  control  of  themselves,  and 
danced  and  yelled  in  fine  frenzy,  while  the  police 
were  sounding  the  slogan  for  O'Hoolihan. 

"  Smash  him,  O'Hoolihan  !  " 

"Hit  him,  Drake!" 

"You're  lettin'  a  kid  lick  you,  O'Hooli- 
han ! " 

"  Finish  the  big  lobster,  Drake ! " 

"  You're  a  disgrace  to  the  force,  O'Hooli- 
han!" 

Thus  cried  the  excited  spectators,  while  back 
and  forth  the  battle  raged;  Drake,  agile  and 
keen,  watching  for  an  opening;  O'HooUhan 
stumbling  and  charging  in  a  fury,  aiming 
sledge-hammer  blows  in  every  direction. 

"  Five  to  one  on  Drake ! "  shouted  the  sport- 
ing editor,  forgetting  himself;  and  there  was 
no  taker.  ,Both  O'Hoolihan's  eyes  were  now 
closing,  and  his  face  was  puffed  and  raw;  but 
he  still  fought  on.  Now  and  then  he  sent 
Drake  reeling  under  one  of  his  vicious  drives, 
and  finally  he  struck  him  on  the  jaw  and  sent 
him  to  the  floor;  but  the  reporter  was  quickly 
up  again.  O'Hoolihan  was  dazed,  and  stag- 
gered wildly  after  his  fallen    but  too  nimble 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  121 

foe.  Drake  saw  his  chance,  and  as  the  Irish- 
man came  on,  gathered  all  his  powers  for  the 
last  desperate  effort.  There  was  a  crack  like 
a  pistol-shot;  then  a  slow,  soft  thud.  Drake 
had  landed  neatly  on  the  point  of  his  antag- 
onist's jaw,  and  O'Hoolihan  struck  the  floor 
squarely  on  his  shoulders. 

"  One — two — three,"  counted  the  captain. 
O'Hoolihan  tried  to  roll  over,  but  his  shoulders 
stuck  to  the  floor  like  lead. 

"  Four — five — six,"  tolled  the  solemn  num- 
bers. O'Hoolihan  fell  back  into  his  first  posi- 
tion. 

"  Eight— nine— ten !  "  O'Hoolihan  did  not 
stir.  Silently  his  comrades  lifted  him  on  their 
brawny  shoulders  and  carried  him  into  the 
police  surgeon's  room.  Drake,  in  the  same  in- 
stant, was  hoisted  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
excited  reporters;  and  yelling,  howling,  and 
capering,  they  bore  him  out  of  the  police  sta- 
tion and  up  the  middle  of  the  streets  to  the 
Record  oflSce.  Murphy  was  avenged;  many 
an  old  score  was  wiped  out;  and  Allan  Drake 
was  all  right,  for  he  had  whipped  a  policeman. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh!  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

— Fitzgerald's  Omar. 

"  What's  to  be  done  now  ?  "  exclaimed  Mar- 
cia,  in  a  tone  half  dismay,  half  amusement. 

"  We  will  have  to  leave  the  machine  here, 
make  our  way  home  as  best  we  can,  and  send 
for  it  later." 

It  was  one  of  Drake's  weekly  holidays — a 
day  off;  and  as  was  their  habit  lately,  they 
were  spending  it  exploring  the  country  in  her 
electric  runabout. 

Midday  had  found  them  twenty-five  miles 
away  from  the  city,  in  the  shadow  of  a  sparse 
little  grove  of  cottonwood,  on  the  banks  of 
Cherry  Creek,  hungrily  interested  in  the  lunch- 
eon Marcia  had  prepared  with  her  own  hands 
for  the  occasion — a  dainty  labour  she  always 
would  perform,  in  spite  of  Mollie's  protests; 
and  they  were  now,  late  in  the  afternoon,  home- 
ward bound.  The  day  was  late  in  September, 
and  the  glow  of  autumn  was  upon  the  earth. 
128 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  123 

In  the  dry,  blue  desert  of  the  sky  there  was  not 
a  cloud  oasis  to  be  seen ;  and  the  sun  lumbered 
like  a  dusty  caravan  down  the  last  ethereal 
leagues  of  his  long  day's  journey. 

The  road  they  had  travelled — a  true  prairie 
road — stretched  straight  away  before  them, 
smooth,  dry,  and  hard,  its  dusty  scourings 
crunching  with  musical  monotony  beneath  the 
rubber  tires.  On  their  left,  and  far  behind 
them,  rushing  backward  as  they  sped,  were  the 
sad,  sallow  plains,  teeming  with  silence  and  un- 
dulating drearily  to  a  reluctant  meeting  with 
the  sky.  On  the  right,  down  its  mile-wide  de- 
pression, historic  Cherry  Creek — known  of  the 
Indians,  its  sands  heavy  with  gold  too  fine  to 
profit  panning,  its  sluggish,  meagre  flow  now 
innocent  of  its  mad  spring  ravings — crawled 
Platte-ward  with  scarcely  a  ripple  left  to  tell 
of  its  summer's  struggle  with  drought,  evap- 
oration, and  greedy  irrigating  ditches.  Be- 
yond the  creek,  northwestward,  Denver  lay,  in 
the  sunlight,  like  a  mirage  with  three  long 
serpent-things  of  sulphurous  smelter  smoke 
lurking  along  on  its  eastern  edges.  And  still 
beyond  this  were  the  mountains,  purple  and 
silent,  with  patches  of  snow  in  the  rifts  of 
rocks,  like  a  forlorn  vanguard  holding  out  for 
winter's  promised  reinforcements. 


124  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Drake  pulled  the  runabout  out  of  the  road- 
way. Something  had  gone  so  radically  wrong 
with  it  that  an  hour's  hard  tinkering  had 
failed  to  disclose  the  trouble. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  deuce  is  the  mat- 
ter," he  said  at  length,  surveying  the  machine 
in  deep,  deliberate  disgust.  "  It's  most  ex- 
asperating ! " 

Marcia  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  annoy- 
ance. 

"  Isn't  that  a  ranch-house  yonder?  Sup- 
pose we  see  what  can  be  done  there !  We'll  ask 
for  a  drink  of  milk." 

With  a  parting  glance  at  the  obdurate 
machine,  they  walked  briskly  foward  until  they 
came  to  a  branching  road  that  led  them  to  the 
ranch-house  in  the  valley.  As  they  approached, 
a  sheep-dog  gave  them  a  vociferous  greeting, 
and  a  sunburnt,  pleasant-faced  woman  came 
to  the  door. 

"  We've  met  with  an  accident — our  auto- 
mobile has  broken  down.  Is  there  any  way  to 
get  a  team  to  take  us  to  town  ?  "  Drake  asked, 
doubtfully. 

"  And  may  I  have  a  glass  of  milk,  please?  " 
Marcia  added,  pleasantly,  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  to  the  more  momentous  question. 

"  Sure,  you  can  have  all  the  milk  you  want," 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  125 

the  woman  replied ;  "  but  as  to  the  -team,  you'll 
have  to  wait,  if  you  don't  mind,  until  my  hus- 
band comes  home.     He  won't  be  long." 

Presently  she  reappeared  with  the  milk  in  a 
tin  bucket,  and  gratefully  they  drank  from  a 
polished  dipper. 

After  some  time  Marcia  proposed  to  Allan 
that  they  climb  a  little  hill  close  by  and  see 
the  view.  They  started,  followed  by  the 
friendly  sheep-dog,  to  whom  visitors  were  evi- 
dently rare  and  welcome.  On  gaining  the 
top,  they  looked  back  with  wondering  curiosity 
at  the  squat,  unpainted,  lonely  home,  from 
which  came  the  clean  smell  of  new  bread  and 
the  sound  of  a  baby's  contented  cooing;  then 
beyond,  at  the  sere  and  melancholy  plains. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts ! "  observed 
Drake,  as  he  watched  the  girl  gazing  dreamily 
into  the  distance. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something — something 
an  old  man  on  Doctor  Hammond's  ranch  once 
told  me.  '  I'm  a  Kentuckian,'  said  he,  '  Miss 
Marcia — from  the  Blue  Grass  country.  Once 
it  was  God's  country,  but  it  isn't  any  more. 
It's  too  rich — too  easy,  now.  His  country  is 
not  a  tropic  forest,  where  men  decay  In  idle- 
ness ;  not  an  Island  In  the  southern  seas,  where 
nature's  bounty  discounts  labour;  not  any  fair 


126  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

and  plentiful  land,  where  lullabies  of  wind  and 
sun  and  shower  soothe  the  energies  of  man 
and  wrap  their  ambition  in  forgetfulness.  NOt 
this  is  God's  country,  right  here  in  Colorado — 
these  dry  plains  and  yon  hard  mountains ! '  " 

"  Your  friend's  definition  of  God's  country 
is  hardly  a  Garden  of  Eden,"  ventured  Drake, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Evidently  not,  and  yet,  surely  not  as 
lonely." 

"  Speaking  of  loneliness,  take  those  people 
there."  Drake  indicated  with  a  gesture  the 
little  ranch-house  below  them.  "  If  they're  the 
right  sort,  they  are  much  happier  than  the 
jostling  multitude  in  the  city." 

"  The  right  sort !  "  repeated  Marcia,  inter- 
ested. 

"  Yes.  People  who  can  live  without  excite- 
ment. I  like  companionship — yours,  Marcia, 
more  than  any  other ;  but  I  thank  Heaven  I  am 
not  so  bored  with  myself  that  I  cannot  sit  down 
and  be  happy  alone." 

"  I  understand,"  Marcia  said,  sadly,  "  be- 
cause I  have  been  alone  a  great  deal  in  my  life, 
and " 

"  But  you're  different,  Marcia,"  quickly  in- 
terrupted Drake,  laying  his  hand  on  hers. 
"  You're  the  right  sort.      You  don't  demand 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  127 

more  than  you  give.     Few  women  know  how  to 
be  comrades,  and  at  the  same  time  be  women." 

In  silence  they  looked  over  the  level  land,  all 
inscrutable  and  brown,  waiting  sullenly  for 
man  to  rescue  it.  At  last  Marcia  withdrew 
her  hand,  and  said  nervously : 

"  I  wish  this  man  would  come.  It's  getting 
late." 

"  Here  he  comes,  now." 

Drake  started  forward  to  meet  the  ranch- 
man, who,  advancing  toward  them,  asked  if  he 
might  be  of  any  assistance. 

Drake  explained  their  predicament. 

**  We'll  get  you  to  town  some  time  to-night," 
said  the  stranger,  cheerfully ;  "  but  where  is 
your  automobile?  I  might  be  able  to  find  out 
the  trouble.  I  was  a  machinist  before  coming 
West." 

Together  they  walked  to  where  the  machine 
lay ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  solved 
the  difficulty  and  put  it  in  running  order. 

The  road  for  a  mile  clung  to  the  crest  of  a 
ridge,  and  then  dropped  into  the  valley,  where, 
after  a  little  winding,  it  led  to  a  deserted  town. 
A  dozen  houses  stood  there,  all  empty  and  for- 
lorn; a  store  building  with  its  pine  boards, 
loosed  and  warped  by  the  sun  into  multiplied 
parentheses ;  small  dwellings  half  unroofed  and 


128  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

marked  with  divers  insults  of  marauding  boys ; 
a  few  thin  stumps  of  dead  and  denuded  trees, 
isolated  ash-heaps,  rusty  tins,  and  fragments 
of  forgotten  furniture — all  getting  "  back  to 
the  earth  again,"  after  the  manner  of  every 
created  thing. 

"  What  stories  these  deserted  houses  could 
tell !  "  exclaimed  Marcia,  thoughtfully.  "  How 
melancholy !  " 

"  And  yet,  there  is  another  way  of  looking 
at  it,"  argued  Drake.  "  The  deserted  village 
is  typical  of  the  Western  spirit  that  moves  men 
to  build,  to  abandon,  to  flit  away — generally 
farther  and  farther  westward — and  to  build 
again.  No  doubt  this  town  has  served  its  pur- 
pose." 

They  peeped  into  one  of  the  dwellings.  The 
sun  stared  boldly  through  a  big  hole  in  the  roof 
and  mocked  the  dirty  desolation  of  the  room. 

"  You  might  take  this,  Allan,  for  the  quiet 
habitation  you  think  you  would  like — all  alone," 
suggested  Marcia,  archly. 

"  '  And  Thou  beside  me  singing  in  the  Wil- 
derness,' "  quickly  returned  Drake,  looking 
into  her  eyes. 

Marcia  blushed. 

The  sun  by  this  time  was  near  its  setting, 
and    a    chill    was    creeping    out    of    the    west. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  129 

Presently  they  came  to  a  spot  where  a  road 
branched  off  from  that  they  were  travelhng. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  isn't  a  shorter  way  to 
town?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Drake.  "  Shall 
we  try  it  ?  " 

Marcia  steered  into  the  road,  and  rapidly 
they  sped  down  the  long,  smooth  incline  towards 
the  creek.  At  the  end  of  a  two-mile  run  they 
discovered,  to  their  chagrin,  that  there  was  no 
bridge. 

"  It's  only  a  ford ! "  said  Drake. 

"  How  provoking !  "  Marcia,  plainly  dis- 
turbed, looked  at  the  creek,  then  at  Drake. 

"  It  isn't  deep,  but  it  might  as  well  be  a 
river,"  continued  Drake.,  peering  into  the 
stream.     "  We  can't  get  across !  " 

"  What  shall  we  do.? "  She  turned  and 
looked  back  over  the  way  they  had  come. 

"  It's  a  long  way  around  to  the  bridge  we 
crossed  this  morning,  and  you're  tired,  Mar- 
cia." Drake  reflected;  then  suddenly  he  cried: 
"  What  an  idiot  I  am !  Jump  out  and  wait 
here  for  me ;  I'll  be  back  presently." 

Before  Marcia  could  realise  that  she  was  on 
the  ground,  Drake  had  turned  the  machine 
around,  flying  back  to  the  deserted  village. 
After  a  few  minutes,  she  sat  down  and  calmly 


130  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

proceeded  to  take  off  her  shoes  and  stockings. 
Her  feet  were  drawn  up  beneath  her  skirt  when 
Drake  returned  with  several  good-sized  planks 
on  the  back  of  the  machine. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  up  to  ? "  he  in- 
quired. 

"  I  am  going  to  wade,"  she  announced,  coolly. 

"Wade.''  Nonsense!  I'll  carry  you."  And 
Drake  directed  towards  Marcia  a  questioning, 
half-merry  look,  between  a  challenge  and  a 
plea. 

"  Allan !  "  she  cried,  colouring  deeply. 

Drake  plunged  into  the  water,  which  seemed 
deliciously  cool  and  refreshing  after  the  dusty 
ride,  and  set  to  work  laying  the  planks  across 
the  stream.  With  considerable  difficulty  he 
managed  to  run  the  machine  over  in  safety. 

"  Come,  Marcia !     Your  turn,  now !  " 

"  Sir ! "  she  cried,  haughtily,  with  seeming 
indignation.  "  It's  not  deep.  You  keep  ahead 
and  look  for  the  shallow  places." 

Drake  laughed,  and  reluctantly  turned 
around. 

"  Now,  eyes  front ! "  commanded  Marcia,  as 
she  skipped  lightly  down  the  bank.  "  You're 
only  a  soldier,  and  must  obey  orders,  if  you 
know  how."  But  he  was  also  a  man,  and  as  she 
stepped  into  the  water  with  a  gasping  little 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  131 

shriek,  he  boldly  picked  her  up,  half-strug- 
gling, and  carried  her  across. 

"  Allan,  I  told  you  not  to,"  she  protested,  not 
very  severely ;  though  her  cheeks  were  aflame  as 
he  placed  her  on  the  opposite  bank,  where  she 
squatted  in  a  heap. 

"  Honestly,"  said  he,  with  averted  face,  "  it 
was  much  deeper  than  you  have  any  idea.  You 
could  not  have  waded  it." 

Whether  she  believed  him  or  not,  the  fact 
that  he  was  wet  through  distressed  her.  *'  I 
think  you  had  better  see  if  there  is  anything 
further  the  matter  with  our  chariot,"  she  said, 
sweetly.     "  Please." 

On  his  honour  as  a  gentleman  he  did  as  he 
was  bidden.  Marcia  was  soon  ready,  and  pres- 
ently gaining  the  main  road,  they  were  once 
more  on  the  final  run  for  home. 

"  Anyhow,  that  was  better  than  going 
around,  wasn't  it .''  "  asked  Drake,  a  trifle  anx- 
ious as  to  her  attitude  towards  him. 

"  It  wasn't  very  nice  of  you  when  you  knew 

I  preferred "     She  broke  off"  abruptly  in  a 

little  laugh. 

Drake  looked  at  her  covetously,  so  beautiful 
and  happy  was  she  in  the  orange  after- glow 
of  the  sun's  warm  setting. 

"  If  you  would  only " 


132  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Marcia  interrupted  him  with  a  sharp  cry  of 
alarm.     "  What's  that  ?  " 

Drake  was  startled,  and  listened. 

From  far  behind  them  came  a  low,  rumbling, 
whirring,  throbbing  sound  that  every  second 
grew  louder  and  louder.  Quickly  turning,  he 
saw  the  great  gleaming  bull's-eye  lights,  ever 
broadening,  piercing  the  darkness,  and  ap- 
proaching with  terrific  speed.  The  road  was 
narrow. 

"  Open  her  up !  Push  her !  "  he  cried,  ex- 
citedly. "  An  automobile  is  coming  at  a  fear- 
ful rate !     We  must  get  out  of  his  way !  " 

Marcia  turned  on  the  power,  and  they  flew 
ahead.  Again  Drake  looked  anxiously  behind. 
The  searching  eyeballs  of  fire  were  almost  upon 
them.     "  Faster,  Marcia !    Faster !  " 

On  they  rushed.  The  road  was  widening. 
Instantly  Drake  ordered  Marcia  to  steer  clear 
over  to  one  side. 

She  obeyed,  bringing  the  machine  to  a  stand- 
still; and  almost  instantly,  with  a  deafening 
roar,  a  huge  automobile,  barely  missing  them, 
whizzed  past ;  and  covering  them  with  dust  and 
dirt,  disappeared,  showing,  as  it  vanished  in  the 
gloom,  a  tiny  red  light  like  a  spark. 

"  By  Jove !  That  was  a  close  shave !  "  cried 
Drake,  angrily.     "  I'd  like  to  take  a  shot  at 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  133 

that  fellow.     It's  d n  outrageous  for  a  man 

to  drive  like  that !  " 

Marcia  sat  strangely  still.  At  last  she 
spoke,  in  a  strained,  broken  voice. 

"  It  was  Henry !  Since  the  trial,  Allan,  he 
spends  most  of  his  spare  time  recklessly,  madly 
tearing  over  the  prairie.  It  seems  to  give  him 
fierce  enjoyment — rest."  She  sighed  deeply. 
"  Oh,  look  yonder — at  the  lights  coming  up  in 
the  city !  Denver  is  counting  the  beads  of  her 
rosary." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Alas!  how  is't  with  you. 

That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy 

And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse? 

— Shakespeaee. 

From  the  day  of  his  undertaking  to  defend 
Therdier,  to  the  hour  when  he  saw  him  free, 
Henry  Woolford's  nerves  were  strained  to  their 
utmost  tension  by  the  ordeals  he  contrived  for 
them.  All  his  life  he  had  been  a  tireless  worker. 
His  was  the  kind  of  nature  that,  if  food  be  not 
provided,  will  feed  upon  itself.  Work  was  play 
to  him ;  play  he  would  ever  turn  to  work.  Such 
energy  of  spirit  as  was  his,  unless  approved 
and  supported  by  the  physical  powers,  meets  an 
early  limitation.  Woolford  had  not  only  will 
but  physique  also;  and  he  could  and  would  do 
things  that  would  have  wrecked  the  nerves  of 
any  man  less  triumphantly  equipped.  No  ex- 
cess of  effort  ever  had  exhausted  him;  and 
often  after  days  of  labour  he  had  spent  whole 
nights  toiling  at  his  desk.  With  his  habits  thus 
fixed  it  was  not  strange  that,  on  taking  up  the 
strangling  cases,  he  had  doubled  and  even 
trebled  his  exertions.  More  than  ever  then  he 
184 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  135 

was  sought  after  by  men  who  were  in  peril  of 
their  liberties  or  their  lives.  It  seemed  that  no 
criminal  action  of  importance  could  go  to  trial 
without  Henry  Woolford's  appearing  as  coun- 
sel, or  at  least  as  advisory  counsel,  for  the  de- 
fence. And  to  every  subject  that  came  before 
him  he  gave  the  same  degree  of  thought  that 
he  bestowed  upon  the  defence  of  Therdier.  In 
his  office  he  denied  himself  to  all  visitors  except 
his  clients.  He  laboured  there  from  morning 
until  night;  and  at  home,  save  on  rare  occa- 
sions, he  went  to  his  study  directly  from  the 
dinner-table,  and  sat  at  his  desk  or  paced  the 
floor  till  dawn.  Still,  contrary  to  all  Marcia's 
fears  for  him,  he  did  not  break  down  before  the 
trial  was  successfully  concluded. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  connection  with 
the  strangling  cases,  Woolford  had  permitted 
Marcia  to  help  him,  had  regularly  sought  her 
aid;  but  gradually,  as  the  time  for  the  trial 
drew  near,  he  became  secretive  and  reserved. 
This  habit  of  concealment  grew  until  he  came 
at  last  to  spend  his  evenings  in  his  study  alt 
alone,  almost  oblivious,  it  seemed,  to  Marcia's 
presence  in  the  house.  Before  that  time,  how- 
ever impatient  and  severe  he  may  have  been 
with  others,  she  had  never  known  him  to  be 
aught  but  kind  to  her;  but  in  the  few  later 


136  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

months  before  the  trial,  he  hurt  her  often  with 
his  neglect,  or  spoke  harshly  to  her  when  he 
noticed  her  at  all.  And  strange  moods  came 
over  him  which  Marcia  could  not  understand. 

All  this  time,  from  the  very  day  he  was  re- 
tained in  the  strangling  cases,  Woolford  had 
experienced  a  mental  exaltation  which,  it 
seemed,  goaded  him  on  to  effort,  lifted  him  out 
of  himself,  transformed  every  desire  and  every 
tendency  of  his  being  into  one  concrete,  absorb- 
ing purpose — to  surpass  himself  in  the  defence 
of  Therdier.  That  ambition  realised,  the  bench 
and  the  bar  amazed,  the  city  ringing  with  his 
name,  he  had  gone  home  to  bed,  indifferent  to 
all  things. 

For  days  he  was  ill.  Marcia  gave  him  the 
most  loving  care,  and  she  was  delighted  beyond 
measure  to  find  him,  in  his  recovering,  much  the 
same  dear  brother  who  had  all  her  life,  till 
lately,  been  so  near  to  her.  He  was  buoyant, 
communicative,  and  gentle  now,  and,  save  for 
an  indefinable  tinge  of  sadness  in  his  demeanour, 
and  an  occasional  lapsing  into  sober  silence,  he 
was  himself  again.  This  change,  after  the 
months  of  anxiety  she  had  experienced,  was  to 
Marcia  tonic  and  sweet.  They  had  many 
happy  evenings  together — happy  in  their  own 
special  way,  sometimes  working  over  Henry's 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  137 

briefs,  sometimes  reading  to  each  other  out  of 
the  books  they  loved,  forgetful  always  of  other 
people  in  the  world — of  all  save  one,  the  image 
of  whose  face  would  now  and  then  shape  into 
Marcia's  sight.  These  were  precious  nights, 
remembered  in  the  after-time  with  many  a  pang. 

There  came  an  evening  when  at  dinner  Henry 
was  a  little  more  restrained  than  was  his  wont 
in  these  later  pleasant  times.  He  did  not  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  Marcia's  blithe  and  careless 
talk;  and  when  he  had  finished  dining,  he  went 
into  the  library,  drew  an  easy-chair  before  the 
fire — for  autumn's  touch  was  in  the  air — and 
was  soon  absorbed  In  a  book.  Marcia  followed 
him  presently,  and  stood  looking  at  him  with 
tender  solicitude  growing  in  her  eyes.  After 
hesitating  a  minute  she  stole  up  behind  him  and 
leaned  over  his  shoulder;  her  two  warm,  round 
arms  encircled  his  neck,  and  very  gently  took 
the  book  out  of  his  hands. 

"  Brother,  dear,  you  look  worried  and  tired 
to-night,"  she  said,  with  earnest  insistence. 
"  I'm  going  to  bathe  your  head,  and  then  I'll 
read  to  you.     May  I.?  " 

Marcia  turned  the  book  in  her  hand  and 
glanced  at  the  author's  name.  It  was  a  treatise 
by  Krafft-Ebbing.  At  once  a  shudder  went 
through  her;  and  Henry  saw  a  swift  horror 


138  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

drive  the  colour  from  the  face  that  lay  upon 
his  shoulder,  close  to  his  own.  He  studied  her 
in  silence. 

"  Henry,  I  don't  know  why^ — I  suppose  I  am 
very  foolish ;  but,  brother,"  she  faltered,  "  I 
don't  like  to  see  you  reading  this.  You've  tried 
to  hide  the  book  from  me — ^yes,  you  have,  dear !  " 

Marcia  burst  into  tears. 

"  There,  there,  little  one ! "  said  Henry,  tak- 
ing her  in  his  arms.  "  Don't  worry  over  that. 
Don't,  Marcia ! " 

He  wiped  away  her  tears.  For  a  long  time  he 
sat  in  silence,  with  one  arm  around  his  sister, 
and  the  other  supporting  his  bowed  head,  while 
he  looked  grimly  into  the  fire.  Marcia's  sobs 
were  slowly  hushed;  but  she  lay  quite  still  and 
did  not  speak. 

The  fire  in  the  grate  burned  low.  The  old 
clock  in  the  hall  ticked  off  the  ponderous  min- 
utes. At  length  Woolford  spoke  in  low  tones 
such  as  he  seldom  used — tones  like  some  of  those 
in  the  middle  register  of  a  violoncello,  only  far 
clearer  and  sweeter. 

"  Sister,  dear,"  he  said,  *'  no  mortal  can 
realise  how  I  love  you.  We  are  all  that  are  left 
in  the  world  of  our  family,  you  and  I.  So  far, 
little  one,  our  lives  have  been  sunshine — ^mostly 
sunshine,  haven't  they?  " 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  139 

Marcia  nodded  in  appreciative  acquiescence. 

"  You  and  I  have  been  happy  together," 
Henry  continued.  "  Our  days  have  been  peace- 
ful— as  peaceful  as  anybody's  days  can  be.  We 
have  loved  each  other,  and  love  each  other  still, 
and  not  for  many  years  has  sorrow  stolen  be- 
neath our  roof.  But,  Marcia,  none  of  us  can 
realise  perfect  happiness  in  this  world — even 
what  we  call  happiness — until  we  have  learned 
how  to  suffer.  Oh,  the  suffering  there  is  in  life ! 
Always  suffering;  but  the  more  terrible  the 
storm,  the  more  satisfying  is  the  calm  that  fol- 
lows.    That  is  some  consolation." 

He  paused,  for  Marcia  trembled  in  his  em- 
brace; and  he  turned  his  face  away  from  her 
that  she  might  not  see  the  anguish  he  knew  was 
depicted  there. 

"  Don't  fear,  little  one,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
shook  in  spite  of  all  his  self-control.  "  Don't 
fear.  Henry's  arm  is  around  you.  You  have 
always  been  so  courageous — you  will  be,  won't 
you,  dear.?  I  have  hurt  you — I  must  hurt  you 
more;  and  the  thought  of  it  is  tearing  at  my 
heart.  But,  Marcia,  I  must  tell  you — I  must, 
because  you  know  we  are  all  that  is  left,  you  and 
I ;  and  if  anything  should  happen  to — to  one  of 
us " 

Marcia's   breath    came    fast,    and   her   eyes 


140  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

opened  wide  from  the  vague  fear  her  brother's 
words  inspired.  Then  she  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  whispered : 

"  Go  on,  Henry.     What  is  it?  " 

"  I've  thought  it  all  out  these  last  two  weeks, 
sister — thought  it  all  out,  as  nearly  as  I  can. 
There  is  only  one  thing  for  us  to  do,  and  that  is, 
to  go  hand  in  hand  down  through  the  fury  of 
the  storm, — down  through  the  fury  of  the 
storm, — if  there  is  to  be  one;  hand  in  hand 
up  to  the  sunlight,  on  the  other  side,  if  there  is 
to  be  any — other — side." 

He  spoke  more  firmly  by  this  time,  regaining 
his  self-poise  as  he  went  on,  his  voice — that  mar- 
vellous voice — gathering  up  more  sweetness  with 
every  word. 

"  Now,  don't  worry,  Marcia ;  everything  will 
come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  We'll  take  a  long 
journey,  for  I  must  have  rest.  I  did  not  realise 
what  these  moods  meant.  They  come  on  me 
when  least  expected.  Doctor  Hammond  says 
they  are  only  temporary;  but,  my  dear,  you 
must  know — be  prepared  for  them." 

He  rested  his  head  upon  Marcia's  cheek ;  and 
a  sob — a  man's  unwilling,  tearless  sob — shook 
his  iron  frame.  Marcia  caressed  him ;  seeing  his 
distress,  all  her  faculties  had  come  back  to  her; 
and  she  was  calm  and  patient. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  141 

"  Why,  Henry,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  "  you 
have  thought  and  worked  so  hard  that  you  have 
worried  yourself  into  a  fever.  You  exaggerate 
it  all!  We'll  take  a  long  rest,  as  you  suggest, 
and  Doctor  Hammond  shall  make  you  well 
again.  Now,  stop,  and  let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

Woolford  lifted  his  head  again.  His  face 
was  grey  and  lifeless,  like  the  ancient  print  of  a 
face  in  volcanic  ash.  For  a  little  while  he  stared 
into  the  fire,  and  the  solemn,  remorseless  ticking 
of  the  old  clock  in  the  hall  was  the  only  sound. 
Then,  with  the  tightening  of  his  blue  lips,  he 
said: 

"  No,  it  is  for  the  best.  I  must  tell  you,  little 
sweetheart,  for  your  sake — for  mine." 

Again  his  head  sank  low,  and  again  the  terri- 
ble sobs  ravaged  him — sobs  like  monstrous  tidal 
waves  of  emotion  sweeping  over  him. 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  brother,"  pleaded  the 
girl,  frightened;  but  holding  herself  together 
with  an  effort  of  the  will,  tears  streaming  down 
her  cheeks.  "  You  are  nervous,  dear.  Let  me — 
please  let  me  make  you  something  hot  to  drink, 
and  then  go  to  bed  and  sleep.  You'll  be  better 
to-morrow,  I  know  you  will." 

She  stroked  his  hair  and  begged  him  to  cease 
his  troubling.     At  last  he  checked  her,  raised 


142  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

his  head,  took  her  arms  from  around  his  neck 
and  held  her  at  arms'  length  away  from  him, 
looking  at  her  fixedly,  as  if  measuring  her 
strength  to  receive  the  blow.  His  muscles  be- 
came rigid,  his  mouth  opened  stiffly,  his  eyes 
were  round  and  starting  from  their  deep  re- 
cesses, and  his  voice  was  hollow,  still,  and  dead. 

"  Marcia ! " 

"  Henry ! " 

There  was  a  world  of  pathos  and  bravery  in 
the  way  she  spoke  the  name.  It  seemed  to  re- 
lieve him,  yet  determined  his  action.  Very 
gently  he  led  her  to  the  sofa  and  seated  her 
there.  Tenderly,  he  wound  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  then  turned  his  head  away  from  her. 

"  Marcia,  you  must  understand.  I  can  keep 
it  to  myself  no  longer — I  feel — I  know — I  am 
going — mad !  " 

A  little  gasp  of  horror  came  from  the  girl's 
lips,  and  unconsciously  she  drew  away  from  her 
brother,  recoiling  from  his  touch;  and  as  he  re- 
leased his  hold  upon  her,  she  fell  backward,  but 
caught  herself  with  one  groping  hand  upon  the 
floor;  and  half  sat,  half  lay  there,  limp  and 
stricken.  For  a  minute  her  eyes,  fastened  on 
Henry's  face,  were  filled  with  helplessness  and 
awe.  The  clock  ticked  again ;  a  tiny  cinder  in 
the  grate  fell  with  a  mighty  crash,  like  a  tem- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  148 

pie  coming  down  in  ruin;  then  the  banished 
blood  mounted  to  her  head  again.  A  flush  of 
shame  at  her  cowardice  spread  over  her  face  as 
she  gazed  at  the  beloved  head,  the  well-remem- 
bered lips,  the  cheeks  she  used  to  kiss,  the  thin 
blond  hair  upon  his  pallid  forehead. 

"  Henry  !  "  She  cried  the  name  again ;  but 
now  it  was  a  sob — a  wave  of  love  from  her  heart 
— love  finding  its  voice  again.  Slowly  she  raised 
herself  from  the  floor,  her  streaming  eyes  intent 
upon  her  brother's  face,  but  filling  now  with  the 
lights  of  pity  and  love. 

"  Henry,  dear !  " 

She  crept  nearer  to  him,  reached  out  her 
arms,  stretched  her  fingers,  hungrily,  and 
touched  his  face;  then,  weeping,  she  threw  her- 
self into  his  arms  and  put  her  own  around  his 
neck.  Henry  sat  quite  still,  and  did  not  bow  his 
head,  but  let  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks  upon 
her  shining  hair.  They  remained  a  long  time 
thus — brother  and  sister — Marcia,  soothing, 
caressing,  finally  minimising,  ridiculing  his 
fears.  Presently  he  was  calm;  and  she  began 
to  outline  plans  for  the  future.  He  must  give 
up  his  practice ;  she  would  take  him  for  a  long 
sea  voyage.  They  would  go  to  places  and  see 
things;  would  hear  music  in  old,  old  cities; 
would  see  the  Southern  Cross  above  their  heads ; 


144  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

would  watch  the  lights  in  the  Mediterranean; 
would  drop  their  troubles — all  their  troubles — 
into  the  Ocean's  deep  and  leave  them  there. 
Just  as  the  dawn  touched  the  curtains  of  her 
bedroom  windows,  Marcia  went  to  sleep  after 
one  final  prayer  that  Henry  might  be  restored 
to  health;  and  the  thought  that  lay  last  in  her 
consciousness  was  this:  she  vowed  that  hence- 
forth she  would  devote  her  life  to  her  brother. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Wind  of  the  North, 

Wind  of  the  Norland  snows, 

Wind  of  the  winnowed  skies,  and  sharp,  clear  stars — 

Blow  clear  and  keen  across  the  naked  hills, 

And  crisp  the  lowland  pools  with  crystal  films. 

And  blur  the  casement  square  with  glittering  ice. 

But  go  not  near  my  love. 

— Charles  He  key  Ludebs. 

It  was  a  Sunday  late  in  November.  An  end  of 
golden  days  had  come,  and  the  predictions  of 
an  early  winter  were,  it  was  plain,  near  to  their 
fulfilling.  The  city  had  gone  to  sleep  beneath 
sedate  stars ;  and  had  awakened  to  find  windows 
muffled  with  wet  snow,  and  the  north  wind 
clamouring  at  doors. 

Drake  slept  late.  It  was  full  noon  when 
first  he  heard,  in  sleepy  curiosity,  the  unfamiliar 
howling  of  the  blast.  He  listened,  then  arose, 
and  went  to  the  window.  As  he  raised  the  cur- 
tain, an  involuntary  "  Whew ! "  escaped  him. 
Through  the  flaked  window-pane,  he  saw  a 
ragged  vista  of  white  housetops,  swirls  of  smoke 
and  snow  pirouetting  over  them;  and  far  be- 
yond, the  mountains,  huddUng  low  in  the  storm, 
145 


146  ART  THOU  THE  MAN? 

fresh  snow  sharpening  the  outlines  of  their 
peaks. 

"  Denver  always  wears  a  look  of  pained  sur- 
prise when  the  first  storm  hits  her,"  Drake  said 
to  himself.  "  She's  a  spoiled  child,  Denver  is, 
and  gets  so  used  to  being  petted  by  the  sunshine 
that  she  forgets  there's  such  a  thing  as  winter's 
sudden  spank." 

His  mother  had  breakfast  ready  for  him  when 
he  went  downstairs.  The  two  morning  papers 
lay  beside  his  plate.  He  picked  up  one,  but 
dropped  it  reluctantly.  It  was  a  pet  rule  of  his 
never  to  look  at  a  newspaper  on  the  one  day  in 
every  week  that  was  his  own. 

Drake  finished  breakfast  at  his  leisure,  telling 
his  mother  the  while,  as  his  habit  was,  of  all  the 
doings  in  the  office  the  day  and  night  before; 
and  touched  up  the  various  incidents  in  a  way 
that  brought  a  gleam  into  her  eyes  and  set  her 
to  laughing,  and  laughing  again  long  after 
he  had  finished  the  stories  and  had  left  the 
house. 

"  I  sent  a  note  to  Miss  Woolford  that  I'd 
come  up  this  afternoon,"  Allan  said  at  the  ex- 
piration of  an  hour.  "  I'll  go  now,  I  think.  I 
may  not  be  home  to  dinner,  but  I'll  not  be  out 
late,  mother,"  he  added,  then  buttoned  his  heavy 
ylster,  and  went  out  into  the  storm. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  147 

The  electric  motors  toiled  and  grumbled  in  the 
snow,  and  Drake  had  plenty  of  time  for  thought 
while  he  journeyed  up  the  grades  that  tempestu- 
ous afternoon.  He  now  found  himself  worry- 
ing somewhat  vaguely  about  Marcia,  and  fan- 
cied that  she  had  borne  a  changed  demeanour 
lately.  One  evening  he  had  found  her  in  tears 
and  almost  hysterical.  She  had  refused  to  con- 
fide in  him,  but  had  responded  a  little  to  the 
efforts  he  had  exerted  to  amuse  her.  Since  that 
night,  he  had  seen  her  several  times — ^five  times, 
he  counted  them — and  had  noticed  in  her  man- 
ner an  occasional  abstraction  that  disturbed 
him.  She  was  annoyed,  pained,  troubled  by 
something,  he  was  sure,  and  as  that  conviction 
grew  upon  him,  he  began  to  feel  an  odd  emotion 
that  was  anger  and  pity  mingled — anger,  at 
the  cause  of  her  suffering,  pity  for  her — for  his 
Marcia.  This  thought  of  ownership  checked 
him  at  first;  but  the  more  he  considered  it,  the 
more  natural  and  right  it  seemed.  And,  in  that 
instant,  all  the  dislike  for  Henry  that  had  lain 
long  latent  in  his  bosom,  grew  into  a  real  and 
ugly  thing.  Was  Henry  causing  this  distress 
in  Marcia's  heart?  Was  there  something 
wrong?  The  lawyer  was  not  well,  he  knew — 
had  not  been  in  good  health  since  the  trial,  Mar- 
cia had  said.     Was  he  venting  his  ill-humour 


148  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

upon  her?  Then  Drake  reflected  more  soberly, 
and  decided  that  he  was  trying  to  guess  too 
much.  He  knew  that  Henry  loved  and  cared 
for  her  tenderly.  If  he  were  ill,  it  was  nat- 
ural enough  that  she  should  be  grieving.  And 
yet — and  yet  there  was  that  inchoate  suspi- 
cion in  his  mind,  and  he  could  not  quite  dis- 
miss it. 

The  week  that  followed  that  awful  night  had 
indeed  been  one  of  suffering  for  Marcia — a  week 
of  suffering,  we  say,  as  if  with  our  petty  forms 
of  speech  we  could  measure  grief  like  the  phases 
of  the  moon,  the  length  of  days,  the  progress 
of  the  seasons. 

Pain  is  the  positive,  happiness  the  negative, 
in  our  lives.  The  most  pitiful  thing  of  all  is  that 
the  heart  once  stricken,  can  never  be  itself  again. 
Comfort,  acquiescence,  love's  fulfilment,  all  may 
be  ours  in  the  later  years;  but  still  there  is  the 
memory  of  the  hurt,  the  cicatrice,  the  haunting 
fear.  The  kiss  on  the  burning  scar  is  sweet; 
but  there  is  the  scar. 

The  week  passed  somehow,  and  before  it  went, 
Marcia  had  become  aware  that  Henry  was  on 
the  eve  of  another  attack.  She  had  learned 
that  when  he  worked  with  such  dogged  and 
feverish  intensity,  as  now  marked  his  daily  occu- 
pation, without  mercy  upon  himself,  or  upon 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  149 

others,  his  soul  was  in  turmoil.  His  practice, 
at  this  time,  demanded  no  such  extraordinary 
efforts.  The  case  that  was  set  for  trial,  at  an 
early  date,  and  in  which,  as  counsel  for  the 
defence,  he  was  associated  with  two  other  law- 
yers, did  not  require  unusual  acumen  or  sur- 
passing labour ;  yet,  in  his  daily  conferences 
with  his  colleagues,  he  amazed  these  learned  men 
by  the  depth  of  thought  and  the  lambencies  of 
imagination  with  which  he  would  explain  details 
of  evidence  that  seemed,  to  their  more  practical 
and  plodding  minds,  trivial  and  inconsequential. 
Nevertheless,  they  saw  nothing  unnatural  in  his 
conduct,  but  accepted  all  his  utterances,  how- 
ever extraordinary,  as  the  characteristic  ex- 
pressions of  Henry  Woolford — Woolford,  the 
enigma  they  had  long  since  given  up. 

Not  so,  with  Marcia.  She  understood  this 
rhapsody,  particularly  when  Henry  came  home 
of  an  evening,  tired  and  morose,  but  yet  suffi- 
ciently aggressive  to  be  contemptuous.  Day  by 
day,  all  that  week,  Woolford  had  grown  steadily 
more  irritable.  Marcia  occasionally  saw  him 
at  meals,  but  he  was  always  sullen,  gruff,  and 
taciturn,  proof  against  her  brave  and  appre- 
hensive attempts  to  converse  with  him. 

Marcia  came  to  the  door  while  Drake  was 
shaking  the  snow  from  his  shoulders. 


150  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  I  saw  you  coming,"  she  said,  greeting  him. 
"  Hurry  in !     You'll  freeze !  " 

"  It  isn't  that  bad ;  but  it's  going  to  be  cold," 
he  answered,  lightly.  "  This  is  not  a  blizzard, 
but  it's  one  of  a  blizzard's  brood,  out  for  a 
gambol." 

Drake,  going  over  to  the  window  seat,  where 
she  had  been  sitting,  picked  up  a  small  volume 
bound  in  wine-coloured  leather. 

"  Omar !  Isn't  this  a  trying  kind  of  a  day 
for  Omar.?  Red  roses  and  grey  days  don't  go 
well  together,  Marcia." 

"  But  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else  I 
wanted  to  read,"  she  explained.  "  And  even 
Omar  doesn't  help  me  to-day.  There  isn't  a 
word  of  encouragement — not  a  word  of  hope 
in  all  he  says." 

"  Hope !  Perhaps  not ;  yet  he  speaks  the 
truth.  The  lives  of  ninety-nine  persons  out  of 
every  hundred  teach  a  more  melancholy  lesson 
than  you  find  in  the  Rubaiyat,  or  in  any  other 
book,  for  that  matter." 

"  But,  at  any  rate,"  declared  Marcia,  "  Omar 
was  resigned  to  the  inevitable,  and  had  quit 
worrying  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Drake.  "  And  only  now 
and  then,  among  the  millions  will  you  find  a 
man   who  has   found  out   what   fun   it   is  to 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  151 

laugh  at  misfortune  and  death — as  Stevenson 
laughed." 

"  How  many  people  are  resigned  to  anything 
— even  to  happiness  ?  "  asked  Marcia. 

"True,"  he  allowed.  "They  are  Hke  flies, 
so  busy  struggling  to  get  out  of  the  pot  that 
they  never  stop  to  ascertain  whether  it's  filled 
with  molasses  or  with  vinegar." 

"  There  are  just  two  quatrains  that  do  not 
make  me  feel  the  worse  for  reading  them," 
Marcia  went  on,  a  little  later. 

"  I  can  guess  them." 

"  Try." 

" '  With  me  along  the  Strip  of  Herbage 
Strown'.?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  one,"  interrupted  Marcia ;  "  the 
other  is  the  one  you  would  not  let  me  finish  quot- 
ing, that  day  when  we  peeped  into  the  deserted 
house." 

Drake  leaned  forward  and  looked  signifi- 
cantly into  her  eyes.  Marcia  bowed  her  head 
and  was  silent.     Then  he  continued : 

"  Omar  always  responds  to  me.  He  has 
a  mood  for  every  mood  of  mine — sad  or 
gay;  studious  or  indifferent.  He  has  a  bully 
way  of  telling  you  that  everything  the 
world  calls  good  does  not  really  amount  to 
beans." 


152  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  Ah !  But  does  he  offer  you  anything  in  its 
place?  "  persisted  Marcia. 

"  No,  unless  it  be  courage  to  realise  that  there 
is  no  absolute  happiness." 

"  But  there  is,  Allan,  somewhere.  I  know 
there  is." 

Marcia  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hand  and 
looked  out  into  the  storm.  The  naked  little 
limbs  of  a  shrub,  punished  by  the  wind,  clawed 
at  the  window-pane,  scrawling  its  story  on  the 
sheet  of  clinging  snow.  Drake  watched  it,  then 
he  went  and  stood  by  her  chair,  and  dared 
to  fondle  a  lock  of  her  hair  that  played 
truant  upon  her  forehead.  Marcia  sat  quite 
still. 

"  You're  in  a  solemn  mood  again  to-day, 
Marcia,"  he  began.  "  Something  is  troubling 
you.     Can't  you  tell  me  about  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  she  responded, 
continuing  to  stare  out  of  the  window.  "  I'm 
afraid  something  is  going  to  happen  to  Henry," 
she  ventured  to  say. 

"  You  only  imagine  that,"  protested  Drake. 

**  No,  no !  He  is  upstairs  in  his  study  now. 
Since  yesterday  he  has  not  left  the  case  he  is 
working  on.  I've  carried  all  his  meals  to  his 
room.  He  will  not  touch  a  thing  but  bread  and 
coffee.     He  worked  at  his  desk  all  night,  except 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  153 

a  couple  of  hours  just  before  daylight,  when  he 
walked  the  floor.     He " 

*'  And  jou  lay  awake  and  worried !  "  Drake 
cried,  indignantly. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep,  Allan,  indeed  I  couldn't." 

"  Can't  you  induce  him  to  go  away  for  a 
long  rest?  "  suggested  Drake. 

"  He  says  he  will.  It's  all  planned  for  him — 
for  us  to  go.     But  he  keeps  putting  it  off." 

"  But  you  can  influence  him  to  do  anything." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  I  always  could  till  now,"  she  said.  **  He 
will  not  listen  to  me.  Lately  when  I  have 
talked  to  him,  I  have  suddenly  discovered  that  he 
was  thinking  of  something  else,  and  not  hear- 
ing a  word  I  said.  And  several  times  he  has 
been  impatient  with  me,  and — and  that  almost 
breaks  my  heart," 

She  was  crying  softly  now,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Drake  was  silent,  the  strange  anger 
in  his  heart  storming  up  to  his  lips ;  but  he  re- 
strained himself  and  tried  to  coax  her  back  to 
peace, 

"  He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  Marcia,  you 
know  that." 

"  I  know  he  does ;  but " 

She  raised  her  head,  parted  her  lips  to  speak, 
but  they  quivered,  and  Drake  saw  the  tears  dry- 


154  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

ing  on  her  cheeks.  At  last  she  lifted  her  hands 
and  clasped  one  of  his  in  both  her  own. 

"  There  are  things  I  cannot  tell  you,  Allan," 

she  said,  piteously.     "  But "     She  stopped 

suddenly,  and  whispered  quickly :  "  Hush ! 
Here  he  comes !  " 

Woolford's  steps  were  heard  rapidly  descend- 
ing the  stairs.  He  came  hurriedly  into  the 
room. 

"  I  cannot  find  that  treatise ! "  he  exclaimed, 
irritably ;  and  noticing  Drake,  shook  hands  with 
him,  saying  absently,  without  any  leading  up 
to  the  subject,  evidently  what  was  on  his 
mind : 

"  Oh,  these  lawyers  are  nothing  but  schdbl- 
boys !  They  know  law — that's  all  they  do  know. 
Law  is  a  small  part  of  a  successful  lawyer's 
equipment.  Men!  Men!  Men!  Why  don't 
they  study  men !  What  do  they  know  of  men  ? 
Of  me?  "  He  laughed  bitterly,  and  departed 
as  quickly  as  he  had  come,  forgetting  all  about 
the  missing  book. 

Drake  was  shocked ;  but  determined  not  to 
show  his  feelings  before  Marcia,  and  abruptly 
changed  the  subject. 

The  afternoon  had  spent  itself,  and  the  night 
was  near.  After  one  of  the  long  silences  that 
often  sweeten  companionship,  Marcia  leaped  to 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  155 

her  feet,  and  swept  her  hand  bewilderingly 
across  her  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  foolish  of  me,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  Here  I've 
spoilt  our  afternoon.  It's  Mollie's  day  out.  I'm 
going  to  cook  you  something  nice  to  eat,  and 
then,  sir,  you're  going  to  talk  to  me.  '  And 
don't  you  go  till  I  come,'  "  she  quoted. 

"  'And  don't  you  make  any  noise,'  "  he  con- 
tinued. 

With  that  she  tripped  toward  the  kitchen, 
smiling  back  at  him  as  she  went.  Drake  stood 
staring  after  her,  half  amazed,  and  wholly  cap- 
tivated by  this  swift  transition.  What  a  plucky 
little  woman.  The  weaker  sex !  Weak,  perhaps, 
where  man  is  obviously  strong;  but  how  brave 
and  ready  to  set  a  shining  face  against  the 
world,  to  dissemble  sorrow,  to  rise  above  defeat, 
to  conceal  humiliation,  to  smile  while  her  heart 
is  breaking !  Drake  thought  Marcia's  fears  for 
Henry  were  exaggerated,  but  he  knew  they  were 
genuine ;  and  to  see  her  dash  them  away  with  her 
tears,  and  in  a  minute  to  be  her  cheeriest  self 
again,  filled  him  with  admiration. 

A  few  minutes  later  Marcia  stood  in  the  door- 
way, lifting  the  draperies  above  her  head.  Her 
face  was  aglow,  and  her  hair  seemed  to  have 
stolen  all  the  richest  lights  from  the  fire  she  had 


166  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

been  bending  over.  She  wore  one  of  MolHe's 
white  aprons,  and  made  a  radiant  picture 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  hallway. 

"  Come,  and  let  me  see  if  I  have  driven  your 
appetite  away.  It's  just  a  snack  I've  got  for 
you,  as  MoUie  says,  but  don't  you  dare  to  com- 
plain ! " 

In  the  shadows  of  the  hall,  while  he  followed 
her  merry  leading,  Drake  came  to  a  sudden 
resolution.  He  would  tell  her,  that  very 
evening — tell  her  how  much  he  loved  her. 

After  tea,  and  while  Marcia  arranged  things 
in  the  dining-room,  so  they  would  not  shock 
MoUie's  well-regulated  sensibilities,  Drake  re- 
turned to  the  library,  under  orders,  and  heaped 
the  grate  fire  with  pinon. 

"  Make  it  bright !  "  commanded  Marcia ;  and 
he  succeeded  so  well  that,  by  the  time  she  came 
in,  the  room  was  yellow  with  the  light,  and  fra- 
grant as  a  forest  of  pines. 

"  Let's  not  have  any  other  light,  just  yet,'* 
Drake  suggested.  "  Let's  sit  by  the  fire 
and  talk ;  or,  play  something  for  me,  won't 
you  }  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marcia,  joyously.  "  This 
will  be  a  night  in  a  lifetime.  We'll  try  to  for- 
get everybody  except  ourselves,  for  a  little 
wliile." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  157 

Drake  drew  forward  a  large  chair  before  the 
fire  for  himself,  as  she  took  a  seat  before  the  pi- 
ano. Her  fingers  wandered  over  the  keys,  softly, 
slowly,  then  louder,  and  more  quickly  as  if  in 
unison  with  her  varying  thoughts.  Drake  listen- 
ing, as  in  a  dream,  thought  he  had  never  before 
heard  her  play  with  so  much  feeling.  Finally, 
all  his  finer  nature  was  aroused,  when  in  a  dul- 
cet, contralto  voice,  she  sang  Nevin's  "  When 
the  Land  was  White  with  Moonlight." 

When  the  notes  had  died  away,  he  rose  and  of- 
fered her  the  chair  he  was  occupying ;  but  she 
playfully  declined  it  and  made  him  keep  it  for 
himself.  Then  laughing,  she  plumped  down  on 
a  hassock,  and  leaning  forward  gazed  into  the 
fire. 

"  We're  closer  now  than  we  have  ever  been, 
Marcia,"  Drake  intimated,  softly. 

"  Yes,  you  are  having  your  own  way  for 
once,"  she  admitted,  smiling  up  into  his  face. 
"  Now  tell  me  something — something  about 
yourself." 

"  Past,  present,  or  future.?  "  he  asked,  half 
seriously. 

"  All  —  anything  —  everything,"  demanded 
Marcia,  all  attention. 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,"  Drake  replied,  slowly, 
"  there  is  nothing  in  the  past  that  would  be  in- 


168  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

teresting  to  you."  When  he  spoke  again,  after 
a  short  silence,  there  was  a  wistful  look  in  his 
eyes.  "  I  used  to  build  air  castles.  I  wanted 
to  be  rich,  and  powerful;  but  the  years  have 
taught  me  things.  I  still  have  ambitions,  but  I 
am  not  deceived,  and  can  forget  them,  if  need 
be.  All  are  futile  and  unworthy,  unless  they 
can  bring  one  happiness.  And,  Marcia,  I  have 
my  notions  of  happiness." 

Silence  fell  upon  them  again. 

The  wind  was  up,  charging  with  sullen,  surly 
menace  in  its  tones.  As  Drake  and  Marcia  lis- 
tened, there  came  a  sound  of  distant-seeming 
footsteps,  tramping  back  and  forth  upon  the 
floor.  Marcia  heard  it,  and  raised  her  head 
to  listen.  Drake  did  not  notice  the  sound,  or 
see  the  shadow  that  crossed  her  averted  face. 
He  leaned  forward  and  put  one  arm  around  her 
shoulders  with  a  gentle  pressure.  She  turned 
and  looked  into  his  face,  frankly,  fondly, 
unabashed.  In  that  long  look  into  each 
other's  eyes,  their  souls  met,  mingled,  under- 
stood. 

"  Sweetheart,"  he  declared,  tenderly ;  and  the 
word — the  first  endearing  one  he  had  yet  spoken 
to  her — sent  a  thrill  through  every  nerve  of  the 
girl,  "  you  have  taught  me  a  new  life — a  new 
hope.     I'm  willing  to  let  the  world  have  all  the 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  159 

other  things  it  calls  precious.  I  have  discovered 
how  to  be  happy.  I  want  you,  Marcia.  Don't 
you  think  we  could  be  happy  together?  " 

Marcia  had  gazed  at  him,  mute  and  trans- 
fixed, while  he  spoke  these  last  words.  Suddenly 
there  came  upon  her  face  an  expression  of  fear 
and  pain,  so  pitiable  that  he  felt  his  heart  check 
as  if  it  were  about  to  stop  its  beating.  She 
reached  out  her  hands  towards  him,  and  a  ris- 
ing sob  shook  her.  When  Allan  clasped  her  in 
his  arms,  she  did  not  resist;  but  nestled  there; 
and  wept. 

After  a  time,  she  hstened  to  his  pleading. 

"  Oh,  Allan !  You  do  not  know !  "  she  cried. 
"  You — do — not  know !  It  cannot  be — no,  no, 
Allan,  I— can't !  " 

Drake,  amazed,  looked  down  at  her  distracted 
countenance. 

"  I  thought — don't  you  love  me  ?  "  he  man- 
aged to  say. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  that?  "  she  replied,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  Then  why  not  ?    I  want  you,  Marcia." 

"  Allan,  if  you  care  for  me,  do  not  ask  me  why." 
She  struggled  out  of  his  embrace  and  got  upon 
her  feet.  "  No,  no !  Don't  ask  me  why !  "  she  re- 
peated, the  frightened  look  again  in  her  eyes. 
*'  Go,  Allan !  Please  go,  before  I Can't  you 


160  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

see  how  I  am  suffering  ?    Go !    If  you  love  me, 
go!" 

"  But  Marcia !  "  Drake  pleaded.  "  You  are 
not  driving  me  away — for  ever !  " 

"  No !  You  may  come  to  see  me — some  time — 
yes,  yes,  you  must — but  don't  punish  me  any 
more  now — Allan — dear !  " 

For  an  instant  longer,  they  stood  apart,  gaz- 
ing at  each  other.  Then,  with  a  cry,  Marcia 
threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  I  love  you,  Allan !     I  love  you !  " 

For  one  sweet,  brief  minute,  she  clung  to  him  ; 
then  bravely,  almost  imperiously  she  drew  away 
again,  stood  erect,  her  eyes  shining,  and  reach- 
ing out  her  hand,  led  him  unresisting  to  the 
door.     He  passed  out  without  a  word. 

Drake  did  not  see  the  door  flung  open  again, 
or  Marcia  come  out,  gaze  at  his  retreating 
figure,  stretch  her  hands  toward  him,  and  cry 
out :  "  Allan  !  Henry !  God  help  me !  "  Then 
returning  to  the  deserted  library,  she  fell  on  her 
knees,  buried  her  head  in  the  armchair  before 
the  ashes  of  the  fire,  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

All  that  night  the  restless  footsteps  beat  in- 
cessantly upon  the  floor  of  Henry  Woolford's 
chamber. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well. 
When  our  deep  plots  do  pall. 

— Shakespeabe. 

The  Patriarch  Murphy  was  impatiently  wait- 
ing in  the  Quarter,  walking  nervously  to  and  fro 
in  front  of  a  restaurant  where  "  Open  all 
Night "  is  a  sign  superfluous ;  where  business 
languishes  by  day ;  and  where  the  first  sputter 
of  the  electric  lamps  is  the  signal  for  the  real 
awakening.  For  the  activities  of  the  Quarter 
are  nocturnal,  chiefly  because  the  habits  and  the 
prejudices  of  the  contributing  outside  world 
have  made  them  so. 

It  had  been  one  of  Murphy's  lazy  afternoons. 
A  ten-dollar  bill  rolled  up  in  a  little  ball,  in  the 
left-hand  pocket  of  his  trousers,  was  all  that 
remained  of  his  preceding  week's  salary ;  and 
all  that  day,  whenever  his  hand  had  sought 
his  pocket,  and  touched  it,  he  had  been  moved 
to  make  just  one  more  experiment  with  his  fa- 
vourite roulette  system.  Finally  he  yielded  and 
walked  out  of  the  office  with  the  purpose  to  play 
five  dollars  of  the  money,  and  if  he  lost,  to  play 
161 


16«         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

no  more.  At  the  first  corner,  he  stopped  and  de- 
bated with  his  doubts. 

"  I  know  as  sure  as  fate  that  if  I  begin,  I'll 
not  quit  till  the  whole  ten  is  gone,"  he  mused  to 
himself. 

He  wavered;  but  the  clicking  of  the  ball  on 
the  roulette  wheel  was  in  his  ears,  and  beckoned 
him  on.  "  It's  about  my  time  to  win,"  he  went 
on,  "  and " 

Thus  Murphy  permitted  himself  to  be  an 
arena  of  these  combating  impulses ;  but  all  the 
while  he  was  walking  more  and  more  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  Therdier's. 

He  entered.  At  nearly  every  table  men  were 
playing,  but  there  chanced  to  be  no  players 
around  Murphy's  favourite  wheel.  A  white- 
haired  old  Frenchman,  who  had  been  sitting  idly 
before  Murphy's  entrance,  now  stood,  and  set 
the  ball  to  rolling. 

"Hello,  Pete!"  cried  Murphy.  He  had 
known  old  Pete  for  a  long  time,  and  always 
chose  his  table,  when  he  came  to  Therdier's  to 
play. 

Pete  nodded,  and  did  not  speak. 

Murphy  played  with  great  care,  according  to 
the  system  he  had  devised.  It  was  not  long  be- 
fore all  the  chips  were  gone.  He  stood  silently 
watching  the  little  marble  spinning  enticingly, 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  163 

dropping  persuasively  into  the  numbered  com- 
partments of  the  wheel,  holding  possibiHties  of 
good  luck  in  every  stop  it  made. 

He  again  thrust  his  hand  into  his  poclcet,  held 
it  there  for  a  minute,  and  then,  with  reckless 
disregard  of  all  his  vows,  tossed  the  remainder 
of  his  money  upon  the  table.  With  an  impas- 
sive face,  Pete  counted  out  the  chips,  and  once 
more  spun  the  white  ball.  It  rolled — rolled ;  lost 
its  impetus;  dropped  upon  the  edges  of  the 
pockets ;  rattled  over  several  of  them ;  bounded 
into  one  and  out  again ;  and  finally  settled  with 
a  sharp  click.  Murphy  remained  still,  in  a  sub- 
missive, disappointed  silence. 

"  I'd  give  it  up,  young  man,"  said  Pete,  with 
averted  eyes  and  in  a  low  tone. 

Murphy  looked  up  at  him,  and  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I've  been  just  a  bit  unlucky  lately,"  he 
contended.     "  My  turn  '11  come." 

"  That's  what  I  thought  when  I  was  a  young 
fellow  like  you."  Pete  spoke  in  subdued,  re- 
morseful tone.  "  And  I  didn't  stop.  I  lost 
everything.  Business,  wife,  all,  for  that.  You 
see  what  I  am  now !  My  hair  is  white  before  its 
time — I  haven't  a  friend  on  earth." 

He  twirled  the  ball  twice  without  speaking. 
It  was  not  an  invitation  to  Murphy — simply 
habit,  and  a  reminder  to  others  that  the  game 


164  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

was  still  open.  Presently  he  looked  up.  There 
was  no  one  near  them.  He  glanced  swiftly 
around  the  room,  and  then  leaned  over,  as  if  to 
pick  up  something  from  the  table. 

"  Would  it  help  you  very  much  if  you  could 
get  on  the  trail  of  the  strangler?  "  Pete  asked, 
with  some  concern  in  the  question. 

Murphy  bent  forward  to  look  steadily  into 
the  unflinching  eyes.  "  Help  me !  "  he  repeated. 
"  Great  Caesar,  man,  it  would  make  me !  Why, 
Pete,  I'd " 

"  Sh !  Not  so  loud !  "  cautioned  Pete,  mak- 
ing a  sudden  great  ado  of  whirling  the  ball. 
Murphy,  though  burning  with  eagerness,  re- 
strained himself.  The  gambler  reflected  a  few 
moments,  and  then  very  quietly  said :  "  Come 
around  here  later  to-night.  I'll  be  through 
with  my  table  then.  Meet  me  outside — we'll  go 
some  place,  and  I'll  give  you  the  particulars." 

Murphy  leaped  to  his  feet,  overturning  a 
chair  in  his  eagerness.  The  ball  rolled  again 
with  its  monotonous  whirr,  as  he  hurriedly  left 
the  house. 

"  To  find  the  strangler ! "  he  muttered,  and 
grew  more  and  more  excited.  In  swift  review, 
there  flitted  through  his  mind  all  the  incidents 
of  that  night  a  year  ago,  when  the  city  editor, 
at  his  suggestion,  had  given  the  case  to  Drake. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  165 

He  had  not  succeeded  either.  Drake  was  a  good 
fellow — he  liked  him  better  than  any  one  else. 
They  had  been  friends  from  the  start ;  and  many 
good  turns  of  his  were  not  forgotten.  Neverthe- 
less, he  longed  to  vindicate  himself — to  make 
good  with  his  paper. 

The  restaurant  where  Murphy  and  old  Pete 
met  a  little  later,  was  up  to  the  requirements  of 
the  Quarter,  and  no  more.  Daylight  never 
could  have  found  its  way  through  the  dirty 
windows,  and  gaslight,  accustomed  as  it  is  to 
suffocating  air  and  noisome  odours,  was  almost 
strangled  there ;  but  struggled  on  in  dim  dis- 
couragement. The  room  was  small  and  unven- 
tilated,  with  a  black  haze  hanging  to  the  ceiling 
and  the  smell  of  the  kitchen  paramount. 

"  Now,  Pete;  tell  me  who  he  is?  "  asked  Mur- 
phy, unable  to  check  his  impatience. 

The  gambler  ordered  something  to  drink,  be- 
fore replying;  even  waited  for  them  to  be 
served. 

"  Look  here,  Murphy ;  go  slow.  I  asked  you 
if  it  would  help  you  if  I  gave  you  some  inside 
information.     Didn't  say  I  could." 

Murphy's  eyes  ghstened  with  anger.  He 
spoke  in  a  harsh  voice.  "  What's  this  you're 
telhng  me?    I  thought  you " 

The  gambler  raised  his  hand  warningly  and 


166  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

glanced  in  alarm  around  the  room.  "  Not  so 
loud !  "  he  murmured. 

Murphy  regained  his  composure.  He  per- 
ceived that  the  man  knew  something,  and  he 
must  let  him  tell  it  his  own  way.  Pete  again 
called  the  waiter,  ordered  more  to  drink  and 
something  to  eat;  then,  he  leaned  crouchingly 
across  the  table,  and  indicated  with  a  slight 
movement  of  the  hand  the  house  across  the 
street. 

Murphy  instinctively  followed  the  man's  mo- 
tion, and  glanced  at  the  gambling-house. 

"  There's  trouble  over  there,"  Pete  whispered. 

Murphy  started.  "At  Therdier's.?  What 
the  devil  is  up  there  ?  " 

The  old  gambler  was  thoroughly  enjoying 
the  situation.  His  secret  gave  him  an  impor- 
tance that  he  had  not  felt  for  years.  He  smiled 
at  the  earnestness  in  the  other's  face,  as  he 
asked : 

"  You  don't  mean  Jacques  and  Richard  are 
at  odds'again  ?  " 

Pete  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Yes ;  and 
they  are  all  jumping  on  Richard,  and " 

"But  he  has  been  acquitted,"  interrupted 
Murphy. 

"  All  the  same,  a  lot  of  them  believe  that  he 
did  it,"  he  maintained;  and  then  with  a  more 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  167 

knowing  air  said :  "  It  cost  Jacques  a  pile  of 
money.  And  there  has  never  been  much  love 
wasted  between  them.  Richard  has  been  hint- 
ing some  ugly  things." 

"  Go  on,  man  ;  hinting  at  what  ?  "  Murphy's 
patience  was  fast  getting  exhausted. 

"  Well,  last  night,"  Pete  went  on  slowly,  not 
in  the  least  hurried  by  the  anxiety  of  his  ques- 
tioner, "  Richard  came  into  the  club.  He  was 
drunk  and  inclined  to  be  quarrelsome;  and  as 
was  his  wont,  blustering  and  bragging  about 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  Presently  Jacques 
arrived,  and  fastened  those  steely  eyes  of  his  on 
his  brother.  On  perceiving  his  condition,  he 
very  quietly  ordered  him  to  leave.  Richard  re- 
fused ;  angry  words  followed ;  all  play  at  the 
tables  ceased.  Both  men  always  go  armed, 
and  it  looked  hke  trouble.  Jacques  said  some- 
thing in  a  low  tone;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
hear  what  it  was.  Richard  was  instantly  cowed 
and  slunk  away  like  a  whipped  cur.  I,  alone, 
distinctly  heard  his  parting  words : 

"  '  If  you  want  to  know  who  the  man  is,  ask 
EUse.' " 

"  Elise !  "     Murphy  stared  in  perplexity. 

"  Jacques  turned  pale,"  Pete  continued ; "  and 
never  answered  a  word.  There  were  none  but 
Americans  playing,  and  the  croupiers  were  not 


168  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

close  enough  to  hear.  The  incident  was  soon 
forgotten.  It  was  a  big  night,  and  Jacques  was 
very  busy.  He  did  not  get  away  to  go  upstairs 
till  very  late;  then  there  was  an  awful  scene  in 
their  apartments,  and " 

"  How  did  you  know  that ,?  " 

**  It  leaked  out  through  the  woman,  Christine 
— Elise's  maid.  She  told  her  husband;  he  told 
me."  He  paused  and  looked  around  apprehen- 
sively, and  then  hurried  on  to  say,  "  Jacques  in- 
formed Elise  what  Richard  had  said,  and  in- 
sisted on  knowing  whom  he  meant.  She  denied 
everything — accused  Richard  of  always  having 
been  her  enemy,  and  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
she  believed  he  would  have  charged  her  with  hav- 
ing killed  his  wife,  were  it  not  for  the  other  mur- 
ders. Jacques  could  find  out  nothing.  Elise 
was  immovable,  and  at  last  he  left  the  room  in  a 
rage." 

"  Does  this  Christine  know  who  the  man  is  ?  '* 
Murphy  asked,  in  an  unguarded  tone,  that 
caused  Pete  again  to  caution  him. 

"  I  think  not.  She  says  Elise  has  been  acting 
strangely,  of  late ;  is  overwrought,  nervous,  ex- 
citable, sees  more  people  than  formerly,  and 
hates  to  be  alone." 

Pete  told  all  this  with  a  positiveness  that 
convinced  the  listener  of  the  man's   sincerity. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  169 

Whether  or  not  they  were  illusions,  at  least  he 
had  given  a  clue.  For  another  half-hour  Mur- 
phy plied  him  with  questions ;  but  was  unable  to 
elicit  anything  of  importance. 

"  Now  that's  all  I  know ! "  the  old  gambler 
concluded,  in  a  tone  of  finahty.  "  I  saw  you  were 
in  hard  luck,  and  wanted  to  do  you  a  good  turn. 
But  you'd  better  go  slow  before  you  do  any- 
thing. You  must  not  use  my  name.  I'd  lose 
my  job,  if  nothing  worse  happened.  You'll 
promise  that,  won't  you.''  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  keep  you  out  of  it,  all  right,"  Mur- 
phy promised,  readily  enough,  for  the  informa- 
tion was  a  distinct  disappointment.  Once  more 
he  had  been  over-confident. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  table,  where  his 
supper  remained  untasted,  heartily  thanked 
Pete,  and  left.  The  restaurant  by  this  time 
was  thronged  with  people,  all  clamouring  to  be 
waited  on,  and  Murphy  was  forced  to  push  his 
way  through  the  crowd.  He  walked  the  distance 
of  a  block,  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  hastened  to  Therdier's. 

The  servant  was  some  time  in  bringing  an 
answer  from  Elise ;  and  Murphy  was  wondering 
how  he  should  approach  her.  He  realised  per- 
fectly that  he  was  dealing  with  a  clever  woman — 
one  skilled  in  all  the  artifices  of  her  sex.     How 


170         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

could  he  force  her  to  reveal  matters  necessarily 
of  such  vital  interest  to  her  to  conceal?  No 
plan,  or  clever  stratagem,  suggested  itself.  All 
must  be  left  to  chance. 

At  a  glance  he  noticed,  on  being  ushered  into 
her  presence,  that  she  was  not  looking  well ;  that 
she  was  pale;  that  her  eyes  had  a  questioning, 
disturbed  look. 

Elise  welcomed  him  cordially,  and  with  some- 
thing of  her  former  gaiety  of  manner;  yet,  to 
the  observant  man,  it  seemed  forced. 

Murphy  was  straightforward,  almost  blunt. 
His  very  embarrassment  at  the  undertaking  led 
him  to  plunge  at  once  into  the  business  that 
brought  him  there.  He  began  by  saying  that 
he  had  heard  that  there  had  been  words  between 
the  brothers.  Elise  listened  disinterestedly, 
though  Murphy,  watching  her,  detected  a  sud- 
den revengeful  glint  come  in  her  eyes  at  the 
mention  of  Richard.  He  continued  his  story 
without  disclosing  the  name  of  his  informant, 
and  was  about  to  repeat  Richard's  reply  to 
Jacques,  on  being  ordered  to  leave  the  club,  when 
Elise  cut  him  short.  She  had  been  pondering, 
her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  as  she  straightened 
herself  in  her  chair,  she  asked,  haughtily: 

"  Monsieur  Murphy,  what  did  you  come  here 
for.?" 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  171 

The  direct  question  disconcerted  him.  He 
hesitated,  attempted  to  answer ;  but  she  did  not 
give  him  the  time. 

"  Bah !  I  am  surprised  at  your  listening  to 
an  old  gambler's  yarn.  Peu  importe!  "  she  ex- 
claimed, indignantly.  "  No,  no !  "  she  took  the 
words  from  his  lips ;  "  do  not  deny  it.  I  know 
who  told  you  these  things." 

For  the  moment,  Murphy's  heart  seemed  to  be 
making  explorations  at  the  bottom  of  his  shoes. 
His  hopes  for  a  successful  interview  were  vanish- 
ing further  and  further  away ;  but  defeat  made 
him  all  the  more  eager.  He  would  try  again,  on 
9,nother  tack — appeal  to  her  generosity. 

"  I  say,  Mam'selle  Elise,  can't  you  give  me 
a  lift — some  little  bit  of  news  ?  " 

Elise  regarded  him  mockingly.  "  About 
what.'*  About  the  man  who  comes  to  see  me?  " 
She  shrugged  her  shoulder  and  laughed  cyni- 
cally. "  Mon  cher  Murphy,  there  are  too 
many."  After  a  moment,  a  slight  frown 
crossed  her  face,  then  she  went  on :  "  Perhaps 
Christine  meant  your  friend  Monsieur  Drake. 
He  often  used  to  come  here.  By  the  way, 
where  is  he  now.?  " 

She  gazed  into  vacancy,  and  so  seemingly  un- 
conscious was  she  of  having  asked  a  question 
that  Murphy  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  took  the 


172  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

occasion  to  collect  his  scattered  thoughts  and 
prepare  his  campaign.  Like  a  flash,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  she  was  infatuated  with  Drake. 
His  own  visions  of  glory  fled ;  and  loyally,  he 
turned  to  his  friend.  Drake !  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  he  was  interested  in  her.'*  Then  he 
thought  of  Pete,  and  that  Drake,  in  all  prob- 
ability, was  the  man  the  old  gambler  referred 
to.  The  idea  was  too  much  for  the  fun-loving 
Patriarch,  and  he  burst  with  muffled  laugh- 
ter. 

Elise  was  now  watching  him,  and  an  angry 
flush  spread  over  her  face. 

"  You  seem  mirthful,"  she  said,  irritably. 

Murphy  checked  his  laughter.  "  Pardon  me, 
Mam'selle  Elise,"  he  choked  forth.  "  You  asked 
me  about  Drake?  I  haven't  seen  him  lately.  I 
think  he's  in  love." 

Murphy's  cleverness  had  returned,  and  was 
about  to  be  tested.  Should  he  tell  her  of  Drake's 
devotion  to  Miss  Woolford  and  rely  on  her 
jealousy;  or,  rather  flatter  her  vanity?  He 
anxiously  awaited  her  next  question.  It  was 
soon  forthcoming. 

"  Who  is  she?  "  she  inquired,  confusedly,  but 
offhand. 

Murphy  thought  there  was  a  shade  of  pas- 
sion in  the  words.    It  decided  for  him. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  173 

"  Marcia  Woolford." 

She  was  unable  to  conceal  her  agitation ;  and 
flushed  and  paled  in  quick  succession. 

"  Grand  Dieu!  "  she  cried,  starting  to  her 
feet.  "  Henry  Woolford's  sister !  "  Then  she 
burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

Murphy  was  alarmed;  and  for  a  moment 
thought  that  the  woman  had  lost  her  senses. 
Gradually,  she  calmed  down ;  but  not  before  the 
hysteria  had  turned  to  tears ;  then  exhausted, 
she  sank  back  with  studied  negligence  among 
the  cushions,  regarded  him  fixedly,  and  said : 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  mon  ami,  I  have  been 
upset  lately.  I  was  angry  when  you  came." 
Then  she  arose,  walked  over  to  him  and  placed 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  must  go  now."  She 
spoke  with  nervous  haste.  "  But  first,  I  want 
to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favour."  She  dropped 
her  eyelids  expressively,  and  then  glanced  up 
again.     "  Will  you?  " 

"  Certainly,"  Murphy  answered,  looking 
down  very  tenderly  into  her  upturned  face. 
"  Name  it."  Afterwards,  he  realised  how  com- 
pletely he  had  been  under  the  charm  of  her  fas- 
cination. Though  he  could  not  have  refused 
her  anything,  intuitively  he  anticipated  that  she 
was  going  to  ask  that  wliich  he  was  most  anxious 
to  grant. 


174  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

A  tear,  that  she  could  not  prevent,  glimmered 
in  the  corner  of  her  eye,  when  at  last  she  ven- 
tured, very  low : 

"  Tell  Monsieur  Drake  that  I  wish  to  see 
him." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

And  over  all  there  hung  a  shadow  and  a  fear; 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  seemed  to  say,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 

"  The  house  is  haunted." 

— Thomas  Hood. 

It  was  late  when  Drake  reached  home  after  his 
evening  with  Marcia.  All  the  hours  of  the  night 
he  toiled  futilely  up  the  hills  of  dream,  and 
tumbled  back  upon  the  hard  levels  of  wakeful- 
ness. At  last,  near  daybreak,  he  fell  into  a 
heavy  sleep,  and  when,  toward  noon,  he  was 
aroused  from  this,  it  was  to  feel  a  vague  and 
ominous  expectancy,  as  if  he  were  awaiting  a 
blow  and  found  himself  surprised  that  it  did  not 
come.  He  lay  still,  and  for  a  few  seconds  waited, 
slowly  wakening;  then  there  came  storming  a 
troop  of  recollections  of  all  the  night's  events, 
knocking  at  his  reason's  gates.  With  little  re- 
sistance, he  let  the  whole  mob  in,  to  trample  and 
subdue  him.  When  they  had  hurt  him  till  he 
would  cringe  no  more  (for  even  keenest  weapons 
of  regret  and  retrospection  dull  with  use),  they 
vanished,  one  by  one,  till  there  were  but  two — 
two  captain  memories:  one,  of  sweet  and  gentle 
175 


176         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

aspect;  the  other,  truculent  and  menacing, — 
strange  alhes  in  the  siege. 

Marcia  had  said  she  loved  him.  As  with  the 
freshness  of  a  summer  morning,  the  thought 
invigorated  and  solaced  him ;  the  other,  staying 
recollection  would  not  so  shape  itself  to  his  con- 
tent. At  intervals  it  intimidated  him.  Finally, 
he  knew  it  could  be  repulsed  no  longer.  It  must 
be  faced  and  dealt  with. 

Marcia  had  refused  to  marry  him;  had  de- 
clined to  give  any  reason ;  had  begged,  if  he 
loved  her,  to  leave  her  with  her  sorrow.  The 
cause  of  her  refusal  was  not  wholly  a  mystery 
to  him,  for  the  short  time  Woolford  had  been 
in  the  room  last  evening  had  confirmed  his  im- 
pression that  the  man  was  utterly  unstrung, 
overworked — if  nothing  more.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  fear  of  its  being  something  worse  that  was 
troubling  Marcia.  Insane !  What  ?  He  shrank. 
The  word  had  a  gruesome  sound.  Henry  insane 
— mad .''  There  was  a  possibility  of  it.  No  won- 
der she  had  refused  him.  A  certain  dull,  appall- 
ing horror  of  what  it  meant  to  her — to  them — 
grew  upon  him.  In  despair,  he  sank  back  among 
the  pillows,  and  moaned. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  there  with  his  hands 
pressed  to  his  face.  Gradually  hope  asserted 
itself.     Something    must    be    done;    Woolford 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  177 

might  come  out  all  right.  Marcia  loved  him! 
Ah,  there  was  such  sweetness  in  that.  It  gave 
him  strength;  his  doubts  and  fears  vanished. 
Presently  his  mother  knocked  at  the  door,  to 
tell  him  it  was  time  to  get  up.  He  leaped  from 
the  bed,  dressed,  trying  all  the  while  to  form 
some  plan  of  action. 

From  his  home  he  went  direct  to  Dr.  Ham- 
mond, to  whom  he  related  the  events  of  the  pre- 
vious night:  his  love  for  Marcia — ^Woolford's 
actions — all. 

The  old  doctor  listened  in  silence,  his  white 
head  bowed  in  thought.  His  brows  were  firmly 
knit,  and  there  came  a  worried  expression  over 
his  features. 

"  Allan,  my  dear  boy,  I  am  very  glad  you 
came  to  me,"  he  said,  very  quietly.  "  I  have 
studied  Woolford's  case,  and  have  tried  to  help 
him.  In  the  first  place,  when  he  was  in  college, 
he  had  an  amazing  capacity  for  study,  devel- 
oped an  exceptional  memory,  and  had  the  most 
evenly  balanced  mind  I  ever  knew.  I  was  cer- 
tain that  some  day  he  would  astonish  the  world, 
for  with  all  his  gifts  he  had  a  cheerful,  opti- 
mistic disposition.  Well,  he  was  attacked  by 
meningitis,  and  came  out  of  the  fever  after  I 
had  given  up  all  hope  of  his  recovery ;  but,  from 
that  time  he  has  always  had  a  tendency  to  mel- 


178  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

ancholia.  His  mind,  by  a  strange  process, 
seemed  to  have  concentrated  all  its  powers  into 
one  function,  and  that  is:  the  ability  to  pene- 
trate the  veils  of  speech,  the  manners  that  men 
wear,  and  to  read  their  inmost  thought,  motives, 
and  character.  From  the  very  ideal  of  broad 
and  mighty  intelligence  he  was  transformed  into 
the  incarnation,  I  may  say,  of  logic  and  analy- 
sis, as  applied  particularly  to  the  study  of  the 
abnormal  and  the  criminal  in  man.  As  a  crimi- 
nal lawyer,  you  know  what  he  has  done,  and 
will  readily  understand  what  I  mean.  He  con- 
fined his  researches  to  law,  philosophy,  and  psy- 
chology. For  a  time  he  was  so  zealous  that  I 
feared  his  mind  would  give  way  under  the 
strain ;  but  his  wonderful  physique  accounts  for 
this  endurance. 

"  However,  I  soon  noticed  one  thing :  he  devel- 
oped an  antipathy  to  other  men — a  resentment 
of  anything  that  resembled  an  attempt  to  influ- 
ence him.  He  refused  absolutely  to  listen  to 
suggestions  or  advice,  even  from  me,  his  physi- 
cian and  oldest  friend.  I  think,  all  this  time, 
he  has  had  a  keen  and  true  appreciation  of  his 
own  condition.  I  say  this,  because  he  has  read 
my  entire  library  in  search  of  professional  dis- 
cussion and  treatment  of  such  cases  as  his 
own," 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  179 

The  doctor  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  de- 
clared, emphatically : 

"  I  think  the  fever,  followed  by  his  tremen- 
dous amount  of  work,  has  left  his  mind  in  a  con- 
dition to  breed  hallucinations ;  but  for  patho- 
logical reasons,  and  from  what  I  know  of  Henry 
Woolford,  I  can  assure  you  with  the  utmost 
certainty  that,  in  my  mind,  he  is  not  insane — 
probably  never  will  be,  and,  what  will  please  you 
also,  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  any 
traces  of  insanity  in  his  family." 

Drake  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  But  the  cure .''  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 

*'  I  cannot  tell,"  was  the  reply ;  then  he  spoke 
feelingly,  and  with  growing  interest.  "  I  want 
Henry  to  go  away — consult  the  specialists  of 
Paris  and  Berlin."  The  doctor  paused  and 
shook  his  head.  "  My  theory  may  be  all  wrong. 
I've  had  theories  smashed  before.  We're  smash- 
ing several  old  ones  every  day.  However,  I  am 
confident  that  Henry  can  be  saved.  We  must 
save  him,  if  only  for  Marcia's  sake.  God  bless 
her!" 

Both  men  had  risen.  The  doctor,  leading  his 
visitor  to  the  door,  stopped  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and  said: 

"  If  you  win  her,  my  boy,  you'll  get  a 
treasure." 


180  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Drake  left  the  doctor's  office  and  strode 
along  the  streets  in  a  far  happier  frame  of 
mind.  The  mass  of  care  and  anxiety  was  no 
longer  with  him.  The  doctor  had  given  him  re- 
newed hope.  Before  he  had  gone  very  far  he 
encountered  Murphy.  The  latter,  since  his  in- 
terview with  Elise,  had  been  thinking  the  matter 
out  and  was  on  the  lookout  for  Drake.  It  was 
evident  that  if  Elise  would  give  any  informa- 
tion, it  would  be  to  Drake.  She  undoubtedly 
was  interested  in  him,  and  this  fact  would  have 
to  be  turned  to  account. 

"  See  here,  old  man,"  he  blurted  out.  "  If 
you're  not  in  a  hurry,  I  want  a  tew  words  with 
you." 

"  Fire  away,"  was  the  instant  rejoinder. 
"  I'm  deuced  glad  to  see  you.  Where  have  you 
been  keeping  yourself  lately.''  " 

Murphy  related  briefly  what  had  happened. 
His  conversation  with  Pete,  his  interview  with 
Elise,  her  evident  reticence,  denial,  and,  lastly, 
his  belief  that  the  only  thing  now  was  for  him 
to  see  her  at  once. 

"  All  right.  But  why  should  she  tell 
me.?  " 

"  Well,"  Murphy  replied,  lingering  over  the 
word,  and  then  lurching  ahead ;  "  because  I 
think  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  181 

"  What  rot !  "  Drake  sneered. 

"  Yes,"  Murphy  went  on,  jokingly,  "  it's 
strange,  I'll  admit,  but  it's  a  fact.  It's  a  big 
chance  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  strangling 
business.  You'd  better  cinch  it."  And  after  a 
few  words  of  good-natured  banter,  he  fled,  leav- 
ing Drake  somewhat  irresolute  and  strangely 
reluctant. 

Absorbed  in  Marcia  and  her  suffering,  Drake 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  Somehow,  he  felt, 
although  it  was  a  matter  of  business,  that  to 
see  Elise  would  not  be  treating  Marcia  exactly 
right ;  but  he  could  not  afford  to  allow  anything 
to  stand  in  the  way  of  unravelling  this  mystery, 
in  which  a  renewed  interest  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  been  awakened.  Elise  undoubtedly  knew 
more  than  she  had  ever  revealed,  and,  although 
he  paid  little  attention  to  the  real  purport  of 
Murphy's  words  with  regard  to  himself,  it  put 
an  end  to  hesitation. 

That  night  found  him  with  Elise.  She  was 
clad  in  a  cream-coloured  kimona  of  the  softest, 
clinging  Asiatic  silk,  with  little  clouds  of  lace 
in  the  flowing  sleeves  and  peeping  from  the 
edges  on  her  bosom.  A  bit  of  her  white  neck 
showed ;  her  cheeks  were  red ;  the  inevitable  rose 
was  in  her  hair,  and  while  her  eyes  were  lan- 
guorous and  still  in  their  violet  shadows,  they 


182  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

revealed  night-black  depths  where  warm  con- 
stellations swam  and  whirled. 

Elise  led  him  direct  to  her  own  apartments. 
These  consisted  of  three  rooms  on  the  second 
floor,  running  straight  back  from  the  front  of 
the  house.  The  double  doors  between  the  first 
and  the  second  rooms  were  wide  open,  making 
them  essentially  one  room,  spacious,  brilliantly 
lighted,  richly  furnished.  The  walls  were  fres- 
coed in  buff  and  pearl,  delicate  greens  and 
touches  of  vanishing  pink.  Here  and  there  were 
pictures,  some  in  oil  and  a  few  old  prints.  At 
first  the  harmony  and  artistic  excellence  that 
prevailed  surprised  Drake ;  but  a  second  later  he 
recalled  what  Woolford  had  told  him  about 
Jacques  Therdier.  He  was  thinking  of  him 
when  Elise,  without  a  word,  led  him  through  the 
partly  open  doors  into  the  third  room — her  bou- 
doir. Drake  expected  to  find  opulence  there, 
but  was  unprepared  for  the  riotous  extrava- 
gance of  this  room.  The  decorative  abandon  of 
it  was  not  in  indisputable  taste ;  but  there  could 
be  no  denial  of  its  effect  upon  the  senses.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  suddenly  being  ushered  into  a 
garden  of  roses,  and  the  daring  use  of  colour 
gave  him  an  indescribable  sensation — a  feeling 
of  intoxication  and  irresponsibility. 

The  carpet  under  his  feet  was  deep  and  yield- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  183 

ing",  and  its  pattern  was  a  conglomerate  of 
fallen  petals  of  the  rose.  Presently  there  came 
to  him  the  recollection  of  an  old-fashioned  rose- 
bush he  had  once  seen — the  velvet  rose,  they  had 
called  it,  because  of  its  singularly  dark  hue  and 
velvety  texture.  This  carpet  looked  and  felt  as 
if  a  dozen  such  rosebushes  had,  on  a  summer 
evening,  shed  all  their  curling,  dewy  blooms 
upon  the  floor,  and  it  seemed  to  Drake  that  he 
should  tread  lightly  there,  not  to  crush  them. 

The  walls  were  covered  with  the  heaviest  silk, 
also  in  rose  tints.  Up  to  the  height  of  five  or 
six  feet,  there  was  a  quilted,  silken  wainscoting, 
if  it  might  be  so  called,  of  the  colour  of  the 
richest  hothouse  rose  and  studded  with  golden- 
tufted  nails.  Above  this  the  silken  fabric  hung 
loosely  in  mounting  masses  of  colour,  paling  up- 
ward, tint  by  tint,  till,  at  the  ceiling's  marge, 
the  shade  was  that  of  the  wild  rose  in  early 
June.  In  all  this  drapery  there  was  no  evidence 
of  design ;  but  the  silk  fell  here  in  negligent 
folds ;  there  in  sweeping  loops ;  again  in  a  care- 
less tangle.  The  ceiling  was  covered  with  a 
loosely  woven  web  of  silk  in  all  the  blended  tints 
of  rose  that  the  most  persistent  florist  ever  got 
by  grafting  and  interbreeding;  and  heightened 
and  relieved  with  interweavings  of  old  gold  and 
palest  yellows — all  brilliant,  artificial,  and  bewil- 


184  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

dering.  In  all  the  room  there  was  not  a  sharp 
angle  to  be  seen,  not  a  spot  of  hard  wall,  not  a 
thing  that  might  suggest  resistance  or  inter- 
rupt a  dream.  Everything  was  silken,  soft,  and 
voluptuous.  Even  the  lamps  that  illuminated 
this  fictitious  rose  garden,  save  for  one,  in  ornate 
bronze,  upon  the  dressing-table,  were  hidden 
away  in  the  folds  of  draperies,  their  radiance 
softened  and  subdued.  In  a  comer  was  a  couch 
upholstered  in  rose-coloured  velvet,  with  a  great 
quilt  in  tender  yellow  thrown  over  its  foot,  and 
fallen  upon  the  floor. 

There  was  but  one  picture  on  the  wall — a 
copy  in  oil  of  "  Bacchante."  It  was  in  the  orna- 
mentation of  the  large  dressing-table  that,  with 
its  full-length  mirror,  occupied  almost  half  one 
side  of  the  room,  that  Elise  had  let  her  fancy 
have  unrestricted  play.  Here,  as  well  as  on  the 
rosewood  table,  were  innumerable  trinkets  and 
precious  bric-a-brac:  statuettes  in  ivory  and 
ebony ;  fantastic  images  in  silver  and  gold ;  mini- 
atures— a  dozen  of  them  on  ivory;  golden 
chains  and  strings  of  gems ;  tiny  sketches  in  oil 
and  water  colours,  all  heaped  and  thrown  negli- 
gently about,  as  if  not  one  of  them  could  amuse 
Elise  for  longer  than  a  vagrant  minute.  On 
one  end  of  the  dressing-table  was  a  lamp  in  the 
form  of  a  bronze  Mercury;  on  the  other,  an 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  185 

ugly  Chinese  god,  exquisitely  done  in  old  ivory 
and  gold,  held  up  a  smoking  pastille  from  which 
the  cloying  odour  fell  heavily  upon  the  room, 
to  complete  the  sensuous  enchantment. 

Elise  gave  him  both  her  hands.  He  took 
them,  held  them  a  moment  and  quickly  dropped 
them  again ;  then  found  a  seat  on  the  couch. 
Her  gaze  did  not  for  an  instant  leave  his  face. 
She  watched  every  expression,  for  she  did  not 
underestimate  his  indifference.  As  men  were 
drawn  to  her,  so  was  she  attracted  to  him.  It 
was  her  turn  now ;  and  in  that  very  thought  she 
found  a  new,  thrilling,  revolutionary  joy.  At 
last,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  met 
one  who  seemed  to  mean  something  to  her,  and 
enchained  her;  and  in  the  desire  to  please  him 
she  felt  emotions  heretofore  unknown,  and  mar- 
shalled all  her  forces  to  conquer  him. 

"  You  look  used  up  ?  "    Very  sweetly  she  said  it. 

"  But  I'm  not — only  tired."  Drake  answered 
in  a  tone  close  to  resentment. 

"  May  I  get  you  something  to  drink.''  " 

Drake  shook  his  head. 

"  Tiens,  I  have  it !  "  she  said.  "  I'll  make  you 
some  Russian  tea.  I  used  to  drink  it  in  Paris, 
when  I  felt — bouleversee — "  and,  catching  her- 
self, "  out  of  sorts."  And  going  to  fetch  the 
things,  she  turned  and  remarked,  lightly :  "  Do 


186  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

you  know  that  you  have  not  been  to  see  me  in  an 
age?  How  long  it  seems  since  that  night,  you 
remember,  when  we  watched — the  spies  of  the 
*  Compagnie.'  "  She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer, 
but  flitted  out  of  the  room. 

Drake,  left  alone,  allowed  his  gaze  to  wander 
about  him.  He  felt  there  was  too  much  of 
everything.  Too  much  silk,  too  much  colour, 
too  much  perfume,  too  much  warmth;  that  it 
was  false,  tinged  with  Oriental  extravagance, 
and  unhealthful.  And  yet,  presently,  he  felt 
stealing  over  him  an  influence  singularly  sooth- 
ing, oddly  enervating.  Then,  the  rusthng  of 
silken  garments  reached  his  ears  and  arrested 
his  revery,  as  the  hiss  of  a  snake  among  the 
grasses  breaks  the  lounger's  dream. 

"  It  won't  do  for  me  to  stay  here  long,"  he 
acknowledged  to  himself,  and  walked  over  to 
the  rosewood  table  to  look  at  a  high-keyed  oil 
that  had  caught  his  eye.  It  was  the  picture  of 
a  smiling,  black-haired  imp  of  a  girl,  in  whose 
dark  eyes  was  the  old  challenge  irresistible.  It 
was  so  well  painted  that  Drake  looked  at  it  long 
and  critically.  It  was  signed,  "  Therdier  " ; 
and  on  the  back  these  lines,  from  Rossetti's 
"Jenny": 

"Lazy,  laughing,  languid   Jenny, 
Fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea.** 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  187 

He  was  still  studying  it  when  Elise  returned 
with  the  samovar  and  accessories  and  placed 
them  on  a  small  table. 

"  Just  one  of  Therdier's.  He  paints  well, 
n^est-ce  pas  ?  " 

Drake  put  the  picture  down  and  looked  long 
and  admiringly  at  her.  As  she  busied  herself 
at  the  table  he  found  himself  trying  to  analyse 
her  beauty.  No  wonder  she  fired  the  blood  of 
men!  There  was  nothing  lacking  to  the  eye. 
The  Creator  had  given  to  her  physical  perfec- 
tion and  that  ineffable  thing  called  charm.  What 
heights  within  her  power,  had  she  been  placed 
in  a  different  sphere !  But,  beautiful  as  she 
was,  he  could  remain  passive  to  her  fascinations. 

Elise  was  now  pouring  the  tea.  She  raised 
her  downcast  eyes,  and,  with  a  smile  which  said 
many  things  at  the  same  time,  broke  the  silence : 

"  I  have  never  met  any  one  quite  like  you. 
You  are  so — so — sympathique.*^ 

*'  Indeed !  "  he  answered,  briefly. 

The  girl  winced  a  little,  then  presently  laid 
down  her  cup,  arose  and  stood  before  him,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  a  faint  smile  on  her 
lips.  Something  in  her  eyes  told  Drake  that  he 
was  hurting  her  with  his  indifference.  A  slight 
pang  of  regret  stirred  in  the  man,  and  uncon- 
sciously he  stretched  out  his  hand.    She  took  a 


188  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

step  forward,  hesitated,  and  then  retraced  her 
steps  to  the  table.  Sinking  back  in  her  chair, 
she  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  What  is  it,  Mam'selle  Elise?  "  Drake  asked, 
melting  somewhat.  "  Is  anything  serious 
troubling  you .''  " 

"  No.  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  was  the  sim- 
ple answer. 

"  Well.? " 

"  I  told  you  a  great  deal  about  myself  once," 
she  went  on,  slowly.  "  I  think  it  was  the  first 
time  we  met." 

Drake  did  not  answer.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
not  heard. 

^^  Eh,  quoi!  You  have  forgotten?"  She 
shrugged  her  shoulder  with  annoyance. 

"  Elise,"  he  began,  "  Murphy  gave  me  your 
message." 

The  man's  manner  had  suddenly  changed. 
He  was  looking  at  her  intently. 

Elise  flushed  with  satisfaction  at  the  more 
intimate  tone. 

"  I  wish  to  be  your  friend,"  he  continued.  "  I 
am  your  friend." 

Ehse  was  staring  down  at  the  floor  where  her 
white-slippered  feet  were  buried  in  the  rose- 
leaves.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  gaze. 
For  a  time  she  seemed  to  be  debating  his  mean- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  189 

ing.  Should  she  trust  him?  She  longed  to  lay 
her  heart  bare  to  him. 

"  Isn't  there  something  you  wish  to  tell  me?  " 
he  asked,  feelingly. 

Slowly,  she  opened  her  red  lips,  and  said, 
with  some  agitation: 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,  except,  perhaps, 
that  I  am  upset  over  some  angry  words  I  had 
with  Jacques  about  a  man,  unknown  to  him,  who 
comes  here  to  see  me." 

Drake  looked  at  her  searchingly.  He  was 
growing  excited.  Was  the  crucial  moment  at 
hand  ?  Instinct  warned  him  to  be  prudent.  The 
secret  could  not  be  wrenched  from  her ;  it  must 
come  voluntarily. 

Whatever  the  question  he  may  have  decided 
to  put  to  her,  it  was  forestalled  by  a  wave  of 
her  hand. 

"  You  do  not  know  him,"  she  continued,  and 
then  added,  with  bitterness,  "  Oh,  how  I  hate 
him ! " 

"  Then  why  do  you  allow  him  to  come  here?  " 
was  Drake's  natural  rejoinder. 

"  Oh,  what  difference  does  it  make !  Le  jeu 
ne  vaut  pas  la  chandelle"  she  said,  deject- 
edly. 

"  Don't  be  foolish.  You  are  young  and  very, 
very  beautiful.     Why,  most  women  would  con- 


190  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

sider  themselves  extremely  fortunate  if  they 
possessed  half  of  your  beauty." 

Elise  was  transformed  with  ecstasy. 

"  You  think  I  am  beautiful.''  "  she  cried,  joy- 
fully, while  the  lights  of  vanity  and  love  drove 
the  shadows  from  her  eyes. 

"  Yes.  How  could  anybody  help  seeing 
it.?  " 

Elise  failed  to  perceive  that  Drake's  answer 
was  in  a  tone  devoid  of  any  warmth;  that  he 
merely  stated  facts. 

"  Look !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  quickly  stood  be- 
fore him.  With  swift  movements  of  her  hands 
she  loosed  her  glorious  hair  and  shook  it  till  it 
fell  around  her  like  yards  of  wonderful  silk  veil. 
She  unfastened  her  gown  at  the  throat  and 
untied  the  heavy  cords  that  bound  it  around 
her  waist,  so  that  the  thin  fabric  hung  loosely, 
but  with  the  singular  fidelity  of  silk,  to  her 
rounded  figure.  Then  she  parted  her  hair  away 
from  her  face,  and  her  throat  and  neck  were 
bare,  and,  looking  down  at  him  with  radiant 
eyes,  she  cried: 

"  Look !  Is  any  woman  more  beautiful 
than  1?  " 

"  No,"  said  Drake,  quickly,  his  eyes  wide  with 
appreciation  of  her  loveliness.  Murphy's  words 
came  back  to  him,  and  he  flushed  guiltily.    Sud- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  191 

denly,  at  the  recollection  of  Marcia,  he  bowed 
his  head  and  his  face  burned. 

Elise  paused,  moved  closer  to  him,  and  laid 
one  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Allan  !  "  Her  whisper  was  scarcely  a  breath, 
though  there  was  feeling  enough  in  her  tone  to 
melt  a  heart  of  ice.  •* 

The  man  did  not  lift  his  eyes  or  answer. 

Elise's  hands  fell  hopelessly  at  her  side,  and 
there  was  a  fast-growing  look  of  despair  on  her 
face  as  she  comprehended  her  impotence  to 
arouse  any  responsive  chord. 

Drake  made  a  movement  to  go. 

"  Pas  encore,"  she  pleaded.  Then,  in  sudden 
desperation,  "  I'll  tell  you  everything." 

Drake's  head  whirled.  Conflicting  emotions 
arose  within  him ;  the  blood  clogged  in  his  heart ; 
a  wave  of  fright,  horror,  and  awe  swept  over 
him  and  left  him  cold  and  inert.  The  rose  room 
became  suddenly  blood-red  and  menacing,  as  if 
the  strangler  himself  were  there.  He  was 
dumb;  his  instincts  slow  in  reviving.  Then  he 
seized  her  almost  brutally  by  the  shoulders. 

"Who  is  he?"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "Tell 
me " 

"  Not  to-night,"  she  protested,  feebly. 

Elise  paled  from  the  touch  of  his  hands  upon 
her  shoulders;  paled  still  more  from  the  thrills 


192  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

that  ravished  her;  but  she  did  not  move,  and 
soon  she  did  not  feel  the  pain.  Drake's  touch 
was  stirring  her  blood  to  violence;  her  cheeks 
blazed ;  her  eyes  were  wide. 

The  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  perfume- 
laden  air,  the  breath  of  the  girl  hot  upon  his 
cheek  threw  Drake  into  a  delirium.  He  looked 
at  her — the  fairest  woman  he  had  ever  seen. 
Looked  at  her;  and  his  breath  came  short. 

Elise  saw  that  look;  heard  the  quick  breath- 
ing, and,  with  a  swift  motion  of  rapture,  threw 
her  warm,  bare  arms  around  his  neck.  Drake's 
head  fell  forward  slowly,  and  he  drew  her  to 
him. 

At  that  instant  there  came  to  both  the  in- 
stinct which  gives  warning  of  impending  peril; 
the  peculiar  consciousness  of  an  unnatural  in- 
fluence; an  alien  presence,  which  was  immedi- 
ately verified  by  the  sound  of  a  soft,  stealthy, 
cat-like  tread. 

Elise  pushed  him  violently  from  her,  and, 
pointing,  cried :  "  La!  Some  one  is  there !  "  and 
rushed  into  the  next  room  in  time  to  see  the 
figure  of  a  man  disappearing  through  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  Drake  asked,  quickly  following 
her. 

Elise  did  not  answer,  but  for  some  moments 
clung  desperately  to  him,  as  if  determined  to 


"'la!     some  one  is  there! 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  193 

prevent  any  pursuit.  Then,  as  suddenly,  he  felt 
her  gripping  fingers  relax  their  hold  and  in 
amazement  he  saw  her  stagger  back  from  him 
and  sink  exhausted  into  a  chair,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  from  sight 
some  calamitous  and  appalling  apparition.  Un- 
certain what  to  do,  and  himself  strangely 
affected  by  the  contagious  apprehension  of 
peril,  vaguely  sentient  of  something  uncanny  in 
the  situation,  he  tried  to  elicit  some  information 
from  her;  but  Elise  would  not  speak,  and,  at 
last  realising  the  futility  of  his  efforts,  he  sum- 
moned a  servant  to  her  aid  and  promptly  de- 
parted. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"It  is  a  far,  far  better  thing  that  I  do,  than  I  have 
ever  done;  it  is  a  far,  far  better  rest  that  I  go  to  than 
I  have  ever  known." 

— DiCKXKS. 

In  a  gelid  cavern  of  the  North,  a  wind  was 
born.  Wrapped  in  its  swaddling-clothes  of 
snow,  it  drooled  among  the  matron  pines,  whose 
sombre  lullabies  were  ineffectual  to  bring  it 
sleep.  The  baby  cougars  cuddled  contentedly 
among  the  rocks ;  the  caribou  kept  to  the  close- 
ness of  sheltered  hollows ;  the  grizzlies  wallowed 
and  waited  patiently  for  spring ;  but  the  infant 
wind,  ugly,  and  distempered  from  its  birth, 
puled  peevishly  in  its  cradle,  and  would  not  be 
gently  ruled.  Like  a  monster  bom  to  complete 
depravity,  it  never  was  really  young;  but 
bounded  one  day  from  its  cradle,  and  was  up 
and  away  to  vent  its  spite  upon  the  earth  and 
its  inhabitants.  The  world  was  -before  it :  great 
fields  invited  it  to  havoc;  cities  and  hamlets 
tempted  it  to  ravage  them;  mountains  offered 
great  stepping-stones,  where  it  might  leap  from 
peak  to  peak,  and  start  avalanches  to  bury 
clinging  camps  in  ruin :  the  world  was  before  it 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  195 

> — a  world  that  was  full  of  things  to  feed  its 
fury,  to  gratify  its  malice,  to  satiate  the  crav- 
ings of  this  rabid  giant  of  the  North.  Oh,  to 
be  away  across  the  world !  The  hollows  and  the 
rocks  of  home  could  no  longer  please  it;  the 
songs  of  the  pines  were  monotonous  and  galling 
to  this  fretful  thing ;  the  playmates  in  the  caves 
but  enraged  it  with  their  happiness.  So  the 
wind  snarled  a  short  farewell  to  home  and  kin 
and  country,  and  was  off,  like  any  wild  ma- 
rauder, punitive  and  keen,  with  a  breath  that 
blasted,  and  blows  that  shattered;  and  a  tread 
that  left  frozen  footprints,  measuring  league  on 
league.  Bellowing  a  challenge  to  the  universe, 
and  rioting  in  destruction,  it  went  its  way ;  it 
bounded  from  range  to  range  of  mountains  and 
tore  the  forests  to  pieces ;  it  stooped  into  quiet 
valleys,  and  smote  the  frail  fabrics  of  the  towns ; 
it  caught  a  camp  of  miners  in  Montana  unpre- 
pared, and  left  them  starving  in  the  snow ;  it 
swooped  upon  the  Red  Desert  of  Wyoming,  and 
buried  a  hundred  herds  of  sheep  in  whited  sepul- 
chres ;  it  strode  across  the  plains  of  the  Dakotas, 
and  laughed  while  the  cattle  bunched  themselves 
in  the  shallow  ravines,  and  died.  Weary  at  in- 
tervals, it  whimpered  sullenly  over  fields  of  thin, 
grey  grass,  and  mocked  the  wolf's  long  howl ; 
and  then  it  rose  up  again,  and  shrieked  in  anger. 


196  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

and  with  frosty  hands  sowed  snow  and  sleet 
upon  the  stricken  earth.  For  days  and  days  it 
scourged  the  lands,  and  charged  like  a  howling 
dervish  across  the  States ;  wiped  out  boundaries, 
and  levelled  landscapes,  and  spread  a  pall  upon 
the  sun  itself.  But  it  became  tired  at  last  of 
evil-doing;  and  satiated  with  destruction,  and 
wrapped  in  melancholy,  it  bent  its  heavy  steps 
toward  the  south,  to  vent  its  senile  temper  upon 
the  bandaged  orchards  of  the  Arkansas,  and  to 
stir  up  strife  among  the  zephyrs  of  the  South- 
land. And  in  its  passage  over  Colorado,  it 
whined  day  after  day  like  a  savage  thing  shorn 
of  its  strength,  impotent  in  rage.  It  clawed  at 
the  spires  of  Denver ;  it  daubed  the  houses  with 
chimney  soot ;  it  waited  at  corners  to  slap  the 
pinched  faces  of  pedestrians ;  it  filled  the  town 
with  chill  discomfort  and  discontent.  And  it 
was  evil  from  its  birth  until  its  end  came  amid 
anathemas  and  pain. 

All  day  Henry  Woolford  sat  at  his  study 
window,  looking  without  seeing,  hearing,  or 
heeding  anything  at  all.  He  did  not  see  the 
bare  trees  shivering  and  cringing  beneath  the 
lashing  of  the  storm;  he  did  not  see  the  thin, 
dry  snow  heaping  up  behind  the  fences  and  the 
angles  of  the  houses ;  he  did  not  hear  the  demo- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  197 

niacal  grieving  of  the  wind,  nor  the  dolorous 
creaking  of  the  maples  on  the  lawn ;  he  did  not 
feel  the  raw  coldness  in  the  air ;  he  did  not  seem 
to  heed  the  dejection  of  the  day,  or  the  nervous 
irritation  there  was  in  the  hard  and  arid  atmos- 
phere. The  room  itself  was  cold.  In  the  grate 
were  the  ashes  of  last  night's  fire.  Henry  had 
risen  early,  but  had  eaten  neither  breakfast 
nor  midday  meal,  and  had  refused  to  permit 
the  servant  to  make  a  fire,  or  to  place  the  room 
in  order.  He  sat  in  his  chair  all  day;  and  his 
mood,  heavier  than  the  day's,  was  beyond  ame- 
lioration and  beyond  increase.  All  day  he 
scarcely  stirred,  and  to  break  the  utter  stillness 
of  the  study  there  was  nothing  but  the  occa- 
sional rattling  of  the  windows,  and  the  sorry 
scraping  of  a  maple  bough  across  the  window- 
pane. 

For  a  week  past  Henry  had  not  once  been  in 
his  office.  His  mail  had  accumulated  amazingly 
and  day  by  day  was  arranged  in  heaps  by  his 
assistants.  Visitors  had  called  again  and  again ; 
but  in  vain.  Through  his  failure  to  appear  in 
court,  two  cases,  for  which  long  preparation 
had  been  made,  were  continued  to  another  term. 
He  was  missed  from  his  accustomed  places,  but 
his  associates  commented  only  that  nothing 
Woolford  ever  did  or   failed  to  do  surprised 


198  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

them.  When  he  left  the  house,  that  week,  it  was 
only  to  take  long  walks ;  and  save  for  these  brief 
respites,  he  was  shut  up  in  his  study  with  his  own 
sufficient  and  implacable  soul.  Marcia,  in  the 
few  glimpses  she  had  of  him  that  week,  had 
watched  him  carefully.  It  relieved,  yet  dis- 
turbed her  to  see  that  he  was  so  self -controlled 
and  natural.  There  was  no  pacing  the  floor,  no 
outbreak  of  passion  or  discontent,  no  chafing, 
and  no  raging  at  mankind.  He  was  not  in  one 
of  his  dreaded  moods ;  but  in  some  strange  leth- 
argy or  transport  that  was  above  and  beyond 
comprehension.  The  expression  of  his  face  was 
profoundly  melancholy,  and  his  demeanour  still 
and  grave.  The  effect  of  all  this  upon  Marcia 
was  more  saddening  than  anything  she  had  ever 
felt  in  the  most  violent  of  his  moods.  Late  in 
the  afternoon,  she  could  refrain  no  longer,  but 
stole  softly  into  Henry's  room,  and  slipped  into 
a  chair  in  a  corner  far  away  from  him.  If  he 
heard  her  enter,  he  gave  no  sign,  but  sat  mo- 
tionless in  his  chair  with  his  face  toward  the 
window.  The  wind  was  failing  now,  with  the 
coming  on  of  darkness.  The  sky  shut  out  the 
sun,  as  with  a  roof  of  slate;  and  there  was  no 
streak  or  glow  to  mark  its  setting.  Night  came, 
as  if  the  roof  were  settling  down  upon  the  world, 
crowding  the  vapours,  thickening  the  atmos- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  199 

phere,  and  forcing  even  the  malignant  wind  to 
flight.  Such  twilight  is  a  burden  to  the  cheer- 
iest souls,  and  a  load  too  heavy  upon  one 
beset. 

The  leaden  minutes  toiled  along  and  brought 
no  change.  Henry  sat  in  adamantine  stillness, 
and  Marcia  did  not  stir.  The  wan  light  crept 
slowly  from  the  room  to  join  the  departing 
spirits  of  the  day ;  and  the  shadows,  as  if  em- 
boldened by  the  silence,  stole  out  of  the  corners, 
sHpped  along  the  walls,  and  crawled  like  spies 
around  the  furniture.  Henry  minded  neither 
departing  light  nor  advancing  shadows,  but  sat 
immovable.  In  that  hour,  Marcia  realised  how 
little  the  most  loving  heart  can  prevail  against 
sorrow  and  pain,  and  understood  the  impotence 
of  sympathy.  3he  could  only  fold  her  hands 
and  wait  among  the  shadows.  The  shadows ! 
They  crept  from  behind  the  bookshelves,  and 
dropped  from  the  hangings,  and  hung  from  the 
edges  of  the  pictures,  and  trooped  from  every 
nook  and  corner,  skulking,  grimacing,  and  ges- 
turing. They  crawled  toward  Henry,  where 
he  sat  with  his  still  figure  outlined  against  the 
square  of  feeble  light ;  and  they  surrounded  him, 
and  made  him  prisoner ;  and  it  appeared  to  Mar- 
cia's  frightened  fancy  that  they  were  about  to 
lift  him  and  bear  him  away.    When  she  checked 


200  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

such  foolish  imagining,  she  was  stricken  with  a 
horrible  premonition ;  for  this  was  like  a  proph- 
ecy, this  shadow-play — the  vanishing  of  the 
light,  and  the  trooping  in  of  the  shadows  to  en- 
velop him — shadows,  shadows,  shadows.  She 
could  be  still  no  longer.    She  must  speak. 

But  Henry  was  the  first  to  say  a  word. 

*'  You  are  missing  your  dinner,  I  think,  Mar- 
cia,"  he  said.  He  had  been  conscious  of  her 
presence  then,  all  the  while.  He  spoke  as  natu- 
rally and  as  evenly  as  if  they  had  been  talking 
together  all  this  time. 

"  I'm  not  hungry,  brother,  but  I'll  eat  if 
you'll  let  me  bring  you  something  too.  We  can 
dine  together  here." 

Henry  did  not  answer.  The  servant  knocked, 
and  Marcia  softly  bade  her  enter  and  light  the 
lamps.  Henry  gave  no  sign  that  he  noticed; 
but  Marcia  was  strangely  relieved  when  the 
shadows  fled  to  their  hiding-places.  The  servant 
noiselessly  retired. 

After  a  brief  interval  Henry  continued,  as  if 
their  talk  had  been  but  interrupted : 

"  I  want  you  always  to  keep  the  books  that 
are  in  this  room,  Marcia.  All  through  my 
life  they  have  been  the  very  best  friends  I  have 
had.  I  love  them  all.  From  the  time  I  was  a  boy 
in  grammar  school,  one  after  another,  each  in 


"the  trooping  in  of  shadows  to 
envelop  him — ." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  201 

turn  has  always  been  close  to  me.  They  have 
been  true  and  patient." 

He  had  not  yet  moved  from  the  position  he 
had  occupied  before  the  window  for  many  hours ; 
but  now  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  walked 
across  the  room  to  one  of  the  large  bookcases 
which  filled  all  the  wall  space  in  the  study.  His 
manner  presented  a  singular  inconsistency.  He 
was  calm  to  the  degree  of  serenity,  steady  in 
his  speech,  natural  and  familiar  in  his  atti- 
tude, as  he  strode  across  the  floor  and  stood  in 
front  of  the  bookcase.  But  beneath  all  this  there 
was  a  hint  of  something  that  had  been  quelled, 
killed,  and  buried.  The  grass  upon  a  grave  may 
be  as  fine  and  as  sweet  as  that  upon  the  virgin 
hillside;  but  it  is  not  the  same,  and  can  never 
be,  though  the  thing  beneath  shall  no  more  stir 
nor  start  nor  shiver.  So  there  was  a  disquiet- 
ing quality  in  the  serenity  that  was  upon  Wool- 
ford  now;  and  Marcia,  though  she  denied  it 
bravely,  knew  instinctively  that  there  was  a 
fault,  an  incompleteness  somewhere.  She  lis- 
tened eagerly,  hopefully,  and  yet  in  awe. 

"  I've  wondered  often  why  some  books  are 
favourite  books,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  I  know 
why  they  are,  and  yet  there  is  a  pleasant  mys- 
tery about  it  all.  There  are  many  books  here, 
and  many   more   down   in   the  library — great 


«0«  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

books,  nearly  all  of  them — ^books  of  the  masters, 
histories  of  the  great  ones,  symbols  of  thoughts 
that  have  lived  through  the  ages  undenied.  And 
yet  they  have  no  equality  in  our  affections.  We 
pass  by  one  with  a  glance,  and  seize  upon  an- 
other. There  are  books  we  like,  and  books  we 
love;  books  we  honour,  and  books  we  cherish; 
books  we  admire  upon  the  shelves,  and  books  we 
thrust  beneath  our  pillow  when  we  go  to  sleep. 
Some  one  has  said  that  we  have  ancestors  of  the 
intellect  as  well  as  ancestors  of  the  body,  and  a 
lineage  of  the  spirit  as  clearly  marked  as  a  fam- 
ily tree.  Here  are  my  other  ancestors — here 
in  my  favourite  books.  I've  kept  them  here  be- 
cause I  could  not  bear  to  have  them  banished  in 
the  library  downstairs.  They  have  watched  me 
at  my  work,  they  have  kept  wakeful  through  the 
long,  long  nights,  and  they  have  been  close  when 
I  slept.  And  they  have  been  tyrants,  too,  for 
they  have  kept  me  awake  of  tener  than  they  have 
talked  me  to  sleep.  Pleasant,  precious  com- 
rades, these." 

One  by  one  he  took  them  in.  his  hands,  and 
looked  wistfully  at  them,  and  caressed  them. 
Many  were  worn  and  ragged  from  much  read- 
ing, and  they  opened  in  his  hands,  as  the  soul  of 
a  man  opens  to  the  touch  of  his  friend.  Be- 
tween certain  leaves  were  thrust  slips  of  paper 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  9  208 

covered  with  Henry's  handwriting;  and  on  the 
margins  were  scribbled  notes.  Here  and  there, 
as  he  saw  familiar  passages,  the  light  shone  in 
his  eyes.  There  was  a  Byron  that  was  old  enough 
to  have  earned  respect,  and  it  was  almost  a 
wreck;  but  rich  in  associations  and  memories. 
It  opened  in  his  hand  at  about  the  middle  of 
the  third  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold."  Henry 
cast  his  eye  upon  the  page,  and  read  aloud, 
slowly  and  without  special  accent: 

" '  He  who  ascends  to  mountain  tops  shall  find 

The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapped  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below.' " 

When  he  had  finished  reading  he  stood  look- 
ing at  the  page  for  several  minutes,  but  made 
no  comment.  Then  he  closed  the  book,  and 
turned  it  over  and  over,  in  his  hands,  and  at 
last  gently  placed  it  in  its  case.  Near  to  the 
Byron  was  an  old  volume  of  Emerson's  essays, 
in  a  cover  that  had  once  been  green,  but  was 
now  faded  and  blackened  to  an  indeterminate 
hue.    Henry  took  this,  and  fondled  it. 

"  What  a  grand  old  mystic !  "  he  said.  "  Lit- 
tle fellows  who  have  not  been  able  to  under- 
stand him,  or  to  dream  with  him,  have  dared 
to  sneer  at  Emerson ;  and  have  subjected  his 
mighty  symphonies  to  the  test  of  their  ordinary 


je04         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

intelligence.  We  may  never  expect  to  under- 
stand him.  The  reason  we  can  read  him  again 
and  again,  is  that  we  can  read  new  meanings 
into  his  words  at  every  perusal.  If  there  are 
passages  that  baffle  us,  it  is  not  because  they 
are  meaningless,  but  because  we  have  not  grown 
enough  to  reach  him,  or  because  mere  words 
never  can  express  the  thoughts  he  had.  With 
all  our  refinement  of  language,  there  are 
thoughts  that  never  can  be  told — thoughts  that 
ever  must  be  the  sole  property  of  the  thinker, 
and  that  lie  in  the  grave  with  him  until  they 
come  again  in  the  brain  of  some  other  chosen 
one." 

There  was  more  of  pity  than  contempt  in  his 
tone  that  night,  for  he  was  not  angry  with  the 
world,  but  only  sorry  for  it. 

Henry  kept  the  book  in  his  hand,  and  walked 
over  to  where  Marcia  sat  silent  in  her  chair. 
He  rested  the  hand  that  was  disengaged  gently 
upon  her  head. 

"  Marcia,"  he  said,  "  much  as  you  have  loved 
your  brother,  helped  him,  studied  with  him,  I'm 
afraid  you  have  understood  him  little  better 
than  the  other  people  who  have  known  him.  I 
do  not  care  now  what  the  others  think ;  but  I'd 
like,  Marcia,  if  you  would  understand — if  you 
would  know  what  Henry  Woolford  thinks  of 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  205 

himself.  I  couldn't  tell  you  before,  but  I  can 
now.  I  have  always  believed  in  myself  till  this 
hour.  I  thought  I  was  one  of  the  doers  in  the 
world.  I  knew,  Marcia,  that  I  could  think  with 
them,  could  live  their  Hfe  of  the  intellect  and 
the  soul.  I  could  look  above  the  levels — up- 
ward, as  Ibsen  says,  '  upward  toward  the  stars, 
toward  the  great  silence.'  I  worked  hard, 
Marcia,  as  you  have  known  these  many  years — 
worked  myself  into  a  fever,  and  lived,  against 
the  fateful  dictum  of  the  physicians,  to  go  on 
with  my  great  purpose.  It  was  a  great  pur- 
pose; and  I  have  come  so  near  to  completing  it 
— to  realising  all  my  aims — so  near — so  near 
that — well,  Marcia,  one  tiny  cell  of  this  brain 
has  failed  to  do  its  work.  No  machine  is  proof 
against  an  accident;  none  can  be  guaranteed 
to  have  no  fault.  Even  God's  works — where 
do  we  find  them  perfect!  Perhaps  our  imper- 
fections were  his  great  intent.     We  have  seen 

men  who — wait "     He  went  to  the  bookcase 

again,  and  placed  the  Emerson  back  upon  its 
shelf.  Then  he  brought  forth  his  Shakespeare, 
tattered,  soiled,  and  marked  with  myriad  pen- 
cillings.  Opening  it,  he  turned  quickly  to 
"  Hamlet,"  and  read : 

" '  So,  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men. 

That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them. 


Hoe         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

As,  in  their  birth  (wherein  they  are  not  guilty 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin), 
By  their  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion, 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason ; 
Or  by  some  habit  that  too  much  o'erleavens 
The  form  of  plausive  manners;  that  these  men. 
Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect; 
Being  nature's  livery  or  fortune's  star. 
Their  virtues  else  (be  they  as  pure  as  grace. 
As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo), 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault.' 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  it  would  have  been 
worth  while — in  a  world  that  is  so  little  worth 
the  while — to  stand  upon  the  topmost  peak,  and 
*  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below.'  Peaks 
are  barren,  lonely  places.  Few  men  could  be 
happy  there — few  who  do  not  want  the  babble 
of  the  street.  I  think  I  could — amid  the  light- 
ning and  the  vapours  and  the  thunderbolts. 
Besides,  the  winning  of  the  peak !  That  is  the 
greatest  glory.  It  was  mine;  I  was  beginning 
to  feel  it,  when " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  broke  off 
abruptly  in  a  manner  that  betokened  an  end  of 
things,  and  held  all  the  pathos  of  the  incom- 
plete. Tears  rolled  down  Marcia's  cheeks,  and 
she  wrung  her  hands.  For  a  little  while  the 
silence  was  unbroken;  then  Marcia  found  her 
voice  again. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  207 

"  Don't  despair,  Henry ! "  she  pleaded. 
"  You  have  gifts — the  greatest  gifts  in  the 
world.  You  have  always  won.  Don't  give  up 
now ! " 

Henry  shook  his  head,  and  did  not  reply. 

"  You've  won  every  fight  with  the  world  and 
with  other  men,"  said  Marcia.  "  You  are 
not  going  to  be  beaten  in  this  fight  with  your- 
self!" 

Henry  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  out 
into  the  night.  Far  across  the  city  and  the 
low  hills,  the  bulging  outlines  of  the  mountains 
were  barely  visible.  Vague  blurs  of  white  in  the 
gloom  showed  where  the  snow  lay  on  the  peaks. 
As  he  looked,  the  grey-black  blanket  of  the 
clouds  was  torn  by  some  vagrant  wind ;  and 
through  the  rift  a  pale  star  shone  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  was  hid  again.  Henry  saw  it 
come  and  go;  and  as  if  moved  to  a  sudden, 
thought  by  it,  he  turned  abruptly,  and  once 
more  stood  by  the  bookcase.  With  the  cer- 
tainty of  familiarity,  he  placed  his  hand  upon 
a  small  volume  of  the  last  poems  of  Tenny- 
son. He  did  not  look  at  his  sister ;  but  opened 
the  book  at  the  last  page,  gazed  at  it  a  min- 
ute or  more,  and  then  read  deliberately  and 
quietly,  as  if  they  were  a  prayer,  these  two 
stanzas : 


208  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

•"Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me; 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar. 
When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

** '  Twilight  and  evening  bell, 
And  after  that  the  dark; 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 
When  I  embark.' " 

Marcia  was  sobbing  softly,  in  her  shadowed 
corner  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

O  most  delicate  fiend! 

Who  is't  can  read  a  woman? 

— Shakesfeake's  Cymbeline. 

The  storm  was  at  its  height.  Drake's  brain,  as 
he  looked  through  the  windows  at  the  fury  of 
the  blast,  was  filled  with  the  happenings  of  last 
night.  Who  was  this  unknown  visitor  who  came 
so  stealthily  upon  them,  and  disappeared  as  fur- 
tively as  he  had  come?  What  was  the  appari- 
tion that  had  so  completely  overpowered  Elise? 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  been  in  close  vicinity 
of  the  mysterious  murderer?  He  shuddered  in- 
wardly at  the  recollection  of  it.  And  then 
Elise.  Why  had  fate  intervened  at  the  critical 
moment  and  prevented  the  one  person  who 
might,  by  some  look  or  word,  have  betrayed,  re- 
vealed, put  an  end  to  this  unfathomable  enigma? 
Finally,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  Marcia,  and 
he  was  filled  with  a  futile  anger  when  he  found 
himself  making  comparisons  between  the  woman 
he  loved  and  Elise. 

Marcia  was  good,  true,  lovable,  and  had  such 
a  sunny  disposition.  He  did  not  want  Elise. 
He  did  not  love  her. 


«10  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

Drake  left  the  office.  In  the  alley  doorway 
he  stopped  to  button  his  overcoat,  for  the  wind 
was  up  in  fury.  The  incandescent  lamp,  sus- 
pended there  under  its  hood  of  tin,  blinked  like 
a  frightened  firefly  that  had  been  tricked,  like 
many  other  summer  folk,  by  autumn's  golden 
promises.  The  snow  was  falling  rapidly;  but 
even  now  warm  gusts  of  air  combated  with  the 
sleety  blasts,  as  if  old  Autumn,  breathing  hard, 
fought  on  with  his  face  to  the  wintry  foe. 

Drake  stepped  down  into  the  alley,  and,  on 
the  first  motion,  halted  in  his  tracks.  He 
thought  some  one  had  called  his  name.  He 
looked  around  and  peered  into  the  huddling 
dark;  but  no  form  was  there  that  he  could  see. 
After  an  instant's  pause,  he  started  on  again; 
but  he  had  gone  scarcely  half  a  dozen  paces 
when  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his  arm.  Turning,  he 
saw,  by  the  dim  and  troubled  light,  the  figure 
of  a  woman  at  his  side — slender  and  thinly,  but 
brilliantly  arrayed;  her  silken  skirts  clinging 
to  her  shivering  legs;  her  feet  clad  in  crimson 
slippers  that  were  already  soaking  wet;  her 
head  and  shoulders  covered  by  a  bright  cloak 
clutched  tightly  at  the  throat  by  a  jewelled 
hand.  She  let  him  look  at  her  for  a  few  waver- 
ing seconds,  and  then  drew  back  the  hood.  It 
was  Elise. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  211 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
timid  tone. 

"  What's  the  trouble  ?  What  brings  you 
down  here?  "  asked  Drake. 

She  hesitated,  ceased  looking  desperately  into 
his  eyes,  and  quickly  dropped  her  gaze.  Her 
fingers  meanwhile  fumbled  nervously  with  the 
folds  of  the  loosened  cloak. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  impatiently. 

She  looked  up  at  him  again,  and  even  in  the 
faint  light  of  the  tossing  incandescent,  he  could 
see  a  look  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  came  for  you,"  she  said,  getting  her  voice 
again.  "  I'm  frightened.  Come  up  to  the 
house,  come!  You'll  not  refuse  me  so  little  a 
thing,  will  you  ?  " 

Drake  did  not  respond  immediately. 

Elise  did  not  suspect  the  reason  for  his  silence 
and  she  took  courage  from  his  hesitation,  all  the 
while  watching  the  changes  on  the  man's  face. 

"  You  will.?  "  she  asked,  more  bravely,  but 
with  touching  reticence,  and  then,  before  he  had 
time  to  reply :  "  You  must !  "  And,  drawing 
nearer  to  him,  went  on  quickly :  "  Please,  you 
surely  don't  want  me  to  implore  you  ?  " 

At  that  juncture  there  came  the  sound  of 
hurrying  footsteps.  He  felt  Elise's  hand  steal 
into  his,  and  he  let  her  draw  him  into  the  deeper 


212  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

shadow.  A  minute  they  stood  there,  hardly 
breathing.  A  man,  with  head  bent  low  and  his 
feet  splashing  in  the  slush,  passed  them  and 
entered  the  building. 

"  You'll  come,"  said  Elise,  entreatingly,  and 
pressed  his  hand  warmly.  "  Elise  wants  you  for 
a  little  while.  You  are  not  afraid  of  Elise,  are 
you?" 

Without  further  discussion  Drake  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  away  mechanically  by  her  side. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  alley  the  wind 
hit  them  with  all  its  force,  and  they  must  bend 
their  bodies  to  meet  it.  Elise  shivered  and  drew 
her  cloak  closer  around  her  head  and  shoulders. 
Without  the  exchange  of  a  word,  they  turned 
down  the  street  and  quickened  their  steps.  At 
the  first  corner  an  electric  car  had  just  stopped 
with  an  impatient  clanging  of  its  gong,  to  pick 
up  a  quartette  of  rounders,  and  was  now  hurry- 
ing suburbward.  Its  departure  left  the  street 
to  Drake  and  Elise  and  a  cheerful  cabman 
whistling  softly  to  himself  in  a  doorway.  A 
block  further  away  they  turned  a  corner  and 
were  a  little  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Then  she 
straightened  up,  settled  her  arm  more  comfort- 
ably within  the  bend  of  Drake's  and  looked  into 
his  face,  which,  in  the  blue  light  from  the  arc- 
lamps,  was  cold,  hard,  and  unresponsive.     Yet 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  213 

Elise  felt  no  cause  to  be  disheartened;  he  was 
obeying  her.  True,  she  had  sought  him  out; 
and  braved  the  storm  to  find  him;  waited  for 
him,  bedraggled,  dishevelled,  deplumed. 

When  a  woman  does  that  for  a  man,  let  not 
that  man  be  puffed  with  vanity  or  triumph; 
rather  let  him  be  on  his  guard  against  the  time 
when  he  shall  pay  for  that  well-remembered  hu- 
miliation. Elise  proceeded  to  complete  her  own 
abasement  and  to  prepare  for  his. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  to  see  you  all  the 
morning.  After  last  evening,"  she  went  on,  pet- 
ulantly, "  I  thought  you  would  be  anxious — 
that  you  might  have  inquired." 

Drake  answered  absently,  with  a  monosyllable. 
Though  seemingly  unconscious  of  her  words,  all 
the  faculties  of  his  mind  were  keenly  on  the 
alert.  The  feeling,  partaking  of  disinchnation 
and  aversion,  that  he  had  experienced  the  first 
few  moments  Elise  and  he  were  together,  had 
entirely  disappeared  and  given  way  to  a  deter- 
mination not  to  leave  her  until  her  secret  was 
his. 

When  they  reached  her  apartments  Elise  flung 
herself  just  as  she  was,  wet  and  dripping,  on 
the  divan  in  the  room  of  roses ;  and  from  one  of 
her  slippers  trickled,  unheeded,  a  discolouring 
stream  upon  the  robe. 


in*  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  she  asked,  persuas- 
ively, motioning  to  the  place  beside  her. 

He  obeyed  in  silence. 

"  You  didn't  want  to  come,"  went  on  Elise, 
poutingly. 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  he  stammered,  "  but  I 
must  be  off  soon." 

At  this  a  little  tremor  passed  over  the  girl 
and  left  her  looking  at  Drake  with  a  touch  of 
that  same  terror  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  seen 
before.  It  disconcerted  him,  but  the  next  mo- 
ment it  had  disappeared,  and  Elise  was  speak- 
ing in  a  steady  tone. 

"  Tres  bien,  if  you  must ;  but  first,  let  me 
remove  these  wet  things." 

She  passed  by  him  and  went  into  an  alcove 
which  he  had  not  perceived  before,  so  cleverly 
was  it  concealed  by  draperies.  Presently,  she 
emerged  as  beautifully  arrayed  as  she  had  been 
the  night  before;  but,  somehow,  there  was  a 
subtle,  indefinable  difi^erence  in  her,  in  him,  in 
everything.  She  sat  beside  him  on  the  couch, 
looking  at  him  beseechingly.  Her  evident  at- 
tempts to  conceal  her  distress  were  futile.  She 
was  plainly  nervous  and  unstrung,  and  almost 
instantly  cast  a  furtive  glance  over  her  shoul- 
der, as  if  something  threatened  her.  So  irresist- 
ibly ingenuous  did  she  seem  to  Drake  as  he 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  215 

looked  at  her  sitting  there  that  he  could  hardly 
suppress  a  longing  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to 
comfort  her  as  he  would  a  frightened  child. 

"  Elise,"  he  began,  presently,  forcing  him- 
self to  be  stern,  "  why  did  you  come  for  me 
to-night?" 

The  girl  took  some  time  to  reply,  and  the 
man  noticed  that  she  shuddered  and  grew 
ghastly  pale. 

"  I  have  a  terrible  presentiment  that  some- 
thing is  going  to  happen  to  me  to-night.  I 
don't  much  care;  but,  somehow,  I  felt  that  I 
must  see  you." 

"  Bosh !    What  could  happen  to  you .''  " 

"  The  man,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  that  came 
here  last  night " 

Drake  started  at  the  words,  and  interrupted 
her  impatiently :  "  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  He  came  to  kill  me."  She  spoke  calmly ; 
but  the  sound  of  her  words  seemed  to  frighten 
her,  for  again  she  started  and  glanced  nerv- 
ously around  her. 

"A  hundred  times  during  the  night  I  awoke 
in  a  cold  sweat,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly.  **  All 
day  I  have  been  terrified,  trying  to  think — try- 
ing to  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do — ^wondering 
if  I  cared.  To-night,  some  strange  influence 
seemed  to  hold  me,  chain  me  to  these  rooms.    It 


216  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

was  all  I  could  do  to  drag  myself  away  to  seek 
you." 

There  was  a  cynical  smile  on  Drake's  lips. 
He  remained  outwardly  incredulous,  hoping 
thus  to  precipitate  an  avowal  from  her. 

"  You  don't  believe  me .''  "  she  cried,  quiver- 
ing with  excitement.  "  Ah,  quel  homme!  You 
don't  know  him." 

"  But  why  don't  you  tell  me  who  the  man  is, 
if  you  expect  anything  of  me?  " 

"  No,  no,  impossible !  The  thought  of  him, 
even  with  you  here  at  my  side,  makes  me  cold." 

"  Come,  now,  Elise,  it  can't  be  as  serious  as 
all  that.  You  are  unnerved,  overwrought,  and 
exaggerate  the  thing." 

Elise  was  silent  for  a  long  time;  quite 
abruptly  the  terror  seemed  to  leave  her,  though 
she  was  grave  and  serious.  Drake,  watching 
the  varying  expressions  on  her  face,  wondered 
at  her  kaleidoscopic  nature. 

"  Allan,"  she  finally  said,  dropping  her  voice 
a  note,  "  are  you  in  love  with  Marcia  Wool- 
ford.?  " 

Drake  was  astonished.  While  inwardly  he 
felt  resentment  and  irritation  at  the  question, 
he  was  fully  aware  that  in  the  interrogation 
there  was  more  than  idle  curiosity.  He  did  not 
answer. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  217 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  her?  "  Elise  pur- 
sued, very  gently,  with  averted  face. 

After  a  long  pause,  Drake  slowly  answered: 
"  I  want  to — I  hope  to." 

Elise  shrank  away  from  him,  muttering 
something  he  could  not  understand. 

Drake  found  his  voice.  "  This  man,"  he  be- 
gan, "  is  a  Frenchman — has  threatened  to  kill 
you — and  because  you  will  not  marry  him.  Is 
that  it.?  " 

Elise  looked  up  quickly,  and  nodded  sadly. 

"  And  you  do  not  care  for  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 
*'  I  was  born  to  please,  so  it  seems ;  but  not  the 
one  I  love."  She  covered  her  face  at  the  humili- 
ation of  her  confession,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"Don't!  Don't!  Everything  will  be  all 
right.  Don't  feel  so  badly."  The  sight  of  her 
emotion  affected  him  singularly.  He  wanted 
to  say  some  reassuring,  comforting  word  to 
her;  but  instead  he  tenderly  placed  his  arm 
about  her,  and  taking  her  hands  stroked  them 
till  her  tears  had  ceased. 

After  a  long  time  the  girl  looked  up  implor- 
ingly into  his  face,  and  asked :  "  You  do  care 
for  me,  don't  you,  Allan  ?  " 

She  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder  for  a 
moment,  and  then  slowly  slipped  from  the  couch 


218  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

to  the  floor  and  knelt  at  his  feet,  resting  her 
arms  on  his  knees,  and,  looking  caressingly, 
steadfastly  at  him,  her  eyes  wandering  for  a 
long  time  on  every  feature  of  his  countenance, 
finally  lingering  on  his  eyes,  which,  she  saw  with 
a  pang,  did  not  glisten  beneath  her  gaze.  Still, 
she  looked  at  him,  and  the  soul  of  the  girl  was 
pictured  naked  to  him,  so  that  he  could  not  fail 
to  understand. 

"  I  wish  to  say  something  to  you,  Allan,"  she 
murmured,  faintly. 

Drake  had  never  known  her  to  speak  so 
softly,  pathetically  as  now. 

"  Probably  I  shall  not  see  you  after  to-night 
for  a  long,  long  time.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  all. 
When  I  first  met  this  man  I  liked  him.  It  was 
not  long  before  I  discovered  that  I  could  wind 
him  around  my  finger.  I  grew  to  care  for  him 
more  and  more,  because,  well,  he  treated  me 
kindly.  Then,  after  a  while,  I  discovered  that 
his  influence  over  me  was  becoming  greater  than 
mine  over  him ;  but  I  always  gave  in  to  him,  some- 
how, no  matter  how  hard  I  tried,  and  I  tried 
very,  very  hard  sometimes,  for  yielding  to  a  man 
is  no  way  to  keep  him  infatuated.  Well,  he  came 
to  see  me  often.  Sometimes,  I  think  I  loved  him. 
Things  went  on  that  way  till  a  few  months  ago, 
when  he  began  to  threaten  me,  and  I  became 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  219 

afraid  of  him.  I  would  have  dismissed  him  en- 
tirely, had  I  dared,  but  every  time  I  tried  to  tell 
him  not  to  come  again,  the  words  stuck  right 
here — and  wouldn't  come  out."  Elise  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat  and  clutched  it. 

"  When  he  asked  to  see  me,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  refuse.  It's  been 
that  way  all  the  time.  I  simply  had  to  do  the 
things  he  told  me."    Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob. 

"  You  mustn't  let  him  influence  you  that 
way,"  said  Drake.  "  Go  away — do  anything 
— but  don't  let  him  see  you  again." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  all !  But  never  mind 
me.  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  feel  badly. 
This  is  the  last  time  Elise  is  going  to  talk  to 
you.  I  am  going  away.  Bear  with  me  just  a 
few  minutes  longer,  for — don't  you  see,  I — I 
love  you." 

Her  voice  was  little  louder  than  a  whisper; 
yet  Drake,  though  he  felt  her  trembling  with 
emotion,  did  not  look  down  at  her. 

"  You  haven't  understood,"  she  went  on. 
"  I've  loved  you  all  the  time."  She  paused. 
"  Allan,  tell  me  one  thing :  If  I  had  been  in  a 
home  just  like  your  Marcia's,  and — well,  just 
that  sort  of  a  girl — would  you  have  loved  me?  " 
She  leaned  forward  to  look  into  his  troubled 
face. 


220  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  think  I  was  bom  unhappy,"  she  said. 
"  God  put  a  wrong  streak  in  me.  I've  had  to 
live  Therdier's  kind  of  a  life ;  but  many  a  night 
I'v%  dreamed  of  a  little  home — and  a  husband 
— ^just  like  you  would  be,  Allan.  A  home  all 
my  own — our  own;  where  there  would  be  no 
servants,  and  no  crowds,  and  with  my  own 
fingers  I  should  work  for  him  and  our  children. 
These  pretty  hands !  What  good  are  they  in 
the  world?" 

She  looked  at  her  tapering  hands,  all  white 
and  jewelled,  and  put  them  behind  her,  out  of 
sight. 

"  You  must  forget  me,  Elise,"  Drake  said, 
after  a  silence.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  the  cause 
of  any  unhappiness.  I  will  always  be  your 
friend.  Some  day  you'll  find  the  man  who  will 
make  you  happy." 

Drake  faltered  a  little,  feeling  the  insuffi- 
ciency of  words  like  these ;  but  he  was  doing  the 
best  he  could. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  care  for  any  one 
else?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  I  am  not 
the  kind  of  man  that  would  please  you — ^you 
would  tire  of  me — ^you  scarcely  know  me. 
You'll  soon  forget  me." 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  221 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  replied,  shaking 
lier  head  with  sad  slowness.  "  You  could  not 
help  it.  But  you'll  think  of  me,  sometimes, 
won't  you  ?  Ah,  I  love  you ! "  She  sighed 
deeply,  and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck. 
She  clung  to  him,  kissing  him  again  and  again. 
**  I  love  you,  yes,  I  love  you !  " 

At  that  moment  there  came  from  the  adjoin- 
ing room  a  low,  thin  cry,  a  crash,  and  the  un- 
mistakable thud  of  a  falling  body. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Oh,  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt?     See, 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  thine  eyes 
By  looking  back  what  have  I  left  behind 
'Stroyed  in  dishonour. 

— Shakespeare. 

W^ooLFORD  replaced  his  Tennyson  on  the  book- 
shelf with  loving  care;  then  his  mood  instantly 
changed.  His  speech  turned  to  a  variety  of 
subjects — law,  crime,  social  problems,  and  even 
reUgion.  His  monologues,  although  slightly 
incoherent,  were  amazing  in  their  brilhancy 
and  profundity.  It  seemed  to  Marcia  that  his 
voice  had  lost  none  of  its  power,  but  rather  had 
gained  new  qualities  from  the  striving  of  his 
soul,  as  the  ecstasy  of  pain  invokes  new  tones 
for  its  expression.  Marcia  could  not  but  listen, 
singularly  fascinated.  Gradually  she  became 
anxious,  for  she  observed  that,  whatever  the 
vagrancy  of  his  mind,  it  was  surely  reverting 
to  his  familiar  theme — contempt  for  mankind. 
He  hated  people ;  he  loathed  and  despised  them ; 
they  were  weak,  puny,  and  execrable.  He 
strode  up  and  down  the  room,  gesticulating, 
hurling  bitter,  contemptuous  words  upon  the 
222 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  223 

imagined  heads  of  men.  It  was  as  if  he  was  the 
reincarnation  of  that  Roman  emperor  who 
wished  that  all  mankind  had  but  one  neck  that 
he  might  sever  it  at  a  blow.  And  yet,  in  the 
midst  of  this  arraignment,  he  paused,  and, 
looking  keenly  at  Marcia,  an  expression  of 
acute  pain,  almost  shame,  crossed  his  noble  face. 
Then  he  went  on  again  with  his  terrible  denun- 
ciations. 

Marcia  could  no  longer  endure  the  strain. 
She  tried  to  convince  herself  that  she  imagined 
his  condition  to  be  more  alarming  than  it  really 
was ;  but  this  fond  casuistry  would  not  suffice. 
She  could  not  conceal  from  herself  the  truth, 
or  suppress  her  agitation.  He  was  perceptibly 
growing  worse.  Quietly  she  slipped  away, 
reached  the  telephone,  which  for  just  such  pur- 
pose had  been  placed  in  her  room,  and  called 
up  Dr.  Hammond.  She  longed  for  the  sym- 
pathy, advice,  and  presence  of  the  kind  old 
man.  He  agreed  to  come  immediately,  on  the 
pretence  of  a  friendly  visit,  and  comforted  her 
with  cheering  words. 

Marcia  sat  alone,  waiting.  For  a  brief  in- 
stant her  thoughts  turned  to  Drake.  She  loved 
him.  The  full  knowledge  of  it  had  come  to  her 
months  before,  like  a  storm  in  summer,  over- 
whelming,  chilling,   electrifying  her.     It  had 


224  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  t 

brought  in  its  wake  such  freshness  and  delight 
of  living  that  all  the  earth  was  green,  and  all 
the  vistas  were  in  flower.  And  then,  a  little 
later,  the  real  storm  descended  upon  her. 
Henry  was  ill.  Indeed,  she  was  in  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  now,  tossed,  torn,  beaten  by  the 
tempest.  Drake's  love  was  but  a  fleck  of  sun- 
light, elusory  and  sad  upon  a  distant  hill. 
Marriage!  No,  that  was  impossible — even  if 
Henry  should  get  well.  It  might  be  inherited; 
and  her  children!  Never!  She  beat  the  word 
into  her  heart — into  her  brain — as  Flagellants 
lash  their  naked  flesh  with  whips. 

When  Dr.  Hammond  arrived,  it  required 
all  his  skill  and  tact  to  quiet  the  lawyer  raging 
at  the  world  and  its  follies. 

"  You  haven't  been  sleeping  well,  Henry," 
said  the  doctor,  pleasantly ;  "  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you." 

"  I  haven't  been  sleeping  at  all,"  answered 
Woolford.  The  dark  lines  around  his  eyes 
gave  support  to  that  pathetic  assertion. 

"  But  I  told  you  to  rest,"  persisted  the  physi- 
cian, watching  his  patient  narrowly. 

"  Rest ! "  Henry  exclaimed,  with  a  metallic 

laugh.     "  How  can  a  man  rest,  when "    He 

did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  made  a  gesture, 
the  very  secret  symbol  of  despair. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  225 

It  was  late  when  the  doctor  took  his  leave, 
after  prescribing  a  sleeping  draught;  but 
Henry  would  have  none  of  it,  saying : 

"  No,  I'll  have  none  of  it.  If  anything,  I  am 
more  afraid  of  drugs  than — of  myself.  Do  not 
worry  about  me.    Alone  I'll  go  to  the  bitter  end ! " 

There  was  that  in  the  man's  tone  that  for- 
cibly emphasised  the  aloofness,  separateness, 
oneness  of  his  nature. 

On  parting  with  Marcia  at  the  door,  the  old 
doctor  told  her  that  he  thought  Henry  would 
be  quiet  now,  and  that  in  a  few  days  he  would 
take  him  to  his  ranch ;  but  after  that  they  must 
delay  no  longer,  and  start  on  the  trip  they  had 
planned.  The  poor  girl  stifled,  as  well  as  she 
could,  the  sob  that  struggled  to  come  forth  with 
her  good-night. 

Henry  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  when 
Marcia  returned,  and  permitted  her  to  read  to 
him.  She  was  careful  to  select  nothing  that 
would  excite  or  annoy  him.  She  chose,  after 
some  deliberation,  "  David  Copperfield,"  be- 
cause it  was  one  of  his  favourite  books.  She 
read  a  long  time,  and  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
chapter  in  which  is  related  Micawber's  denun- 
ciation of  Heep,  when  suddenly  she  was  im- 
pelled to  look  up  from  the  printed  page.  She 
was  startled  to  find  Henry's  eyes  fixed  upon 


««6  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

her,  but  with  a  far-away  look  in  the  distended 
pupils.  There  was,  too,  something  in  that 
gaze  that  horrified  her. 

"  Henry !  "  she  called,  cautiously. 

He  did  not  answer;  and  it  was  plain  that  he 
had  not  listened  to  her  reading.  She  spoke 
again  a  little  louder.  This  time  he  heard  her, 
but  the  expression  in  his  eyes  was  not  altered. 
And  when  he  began  to  speak,  his  words  had  no 
relation  to  what  she  had  been  reading  to  him. 
He  had  been,  and  still  was,  in  his  own  world  of 
thoughts  and  things;  and  though  he  spoke  her 
name,  he  was,  it  appeared,  but  vaguely  con- 
scious of  her. 

"  Then  there  was  Antony,"  he  said,  uttering 
aloud  the  continuation  of  his  thought.  "  What 
a  type  of  the  conquered  conqueror  he  was !  '  I 
am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ! '  All  the  petty 
pathos  known  of  all  the  little  men  since  Adam's 
fall  cannot  touch  such  heights  of  sadness  and 
of  pity.  Tragedy?  Why,  Marcia,  there  is 
no  other  tragedy  but  this — the  tragedy  of 
greatness  thrown  at  a  woman's  feet.  Princes, 
founders  of  nations,  saviours  of  their  country, 
builders  of  empires,  strong  men,  heroes,  con- 
querors, men  whose  wills  have  overridden  earth 
and  peoples,  men  whose  purposes  and  whose 
power  have  stormed  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  227 

how  many  a  one  of  even  these  has  breathed  away 
his  might  upon  a  woman's  bosom,  and  has 
gladly  bartered  glory  for  a  harlot's  kiss." 

Henry  paused ;  and  Marcia  sank  lower  in  her 
chair.     Soon  he  went  on: 

"  What  is  it — what  can  it  be — this  subtle 
power  there  is  in  some  women !  If  they  all  had 
it,  God  pity  the  world!  The  lodestone  draws 
and  compels  and  holds  the  finest-tempered  steel. 
Just  as  surely  and  inexplicably  some  women  at- 
tract and  fascinate  all  men.  From  their  lips, 
eyes,  hair,  every  tiny  pore  of  their  fragile 
bodies,  there  issues  a  vapour,  heavy  with  cloy- 
ing perfume,  sweet  as  the  air  the  angels 
breathe,  pungent  with  all  the  fires  of  hell.  Let 
him  breathe  it  who  dares,  and,  however  strong 
and  great  he  be,  I  care  not.  If  the  woman 
wills,  then  farewell  honour,  glory,  power,  am- 
bition, everything — everything  but  her !  Men 
have  died  for  her ;  temples,  palaces,  and  gibbets 
have  been  built  for  her;  armies  have  marched 
for  her;  fire  and  sword  have  swept  the  lands 
for  her ;  empires  have  fallen  for  her ;  schools 
of  art,  systems  of  philosophy,  and  vast  domains 
of  intellect  have  been  stepping-stones  for  her; 
the  earth  has  trembled — yes,  and  angels  have 
fallen  for  her." 

Marcia  by  this  time  was  almost  dumb  with 


228  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

dread.  She  could  not  understand  what  this 
perfervid  eloquence  in  him  meant.  Woolford's 
flesh  burned  as  with  a  fever,  but  sickly,  yellow- 
ish lines  began  to  show  around  his  mouth  and 
eyes  in  deathly  contrast  with  the  hue  of  his 
flaming  cheeks. 

"  And  what  an  end  there  is,"  he  went  on, 
"  when  greatness  meets  its  conqueror !  Oh, 
Antony,  Antony !  The  multitude  of  fools  cry 
out,  mourn,  and  sigh  when  a  great  man  falls 
at  a  woman's  feet.  Pooh!  They  feel  the 
trembling  of  the  sphere,  but  they  do  not  know 
the  compensation.  They  do  not  know  that,  in 
finding  a  being  who  can  conquer  his  will  and 
fascinate  him,  he  has  gained  more  than  he  has 
lost  in  his  fall.  They  cannot  understand  that 
he  has  made  a  glorious  bargain  in  his  exchange 
of  the  hollow  mockery  of  greatness  for  some- 
thing tangible,  actual,  of  flesh  and  blood — the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world — a  fascinating 
woman.  Why,  to  common  men,  passion  is  but 
sordid  lust,  love  an  ideal  never  to  be  realised. 
What  can  they  know  of  emotions  by  the  side 
of  which  honour,  ambition,  rank,  and  power 
are  meaningless — ^mere  empty  words !  What  is 
the  reward  of  great  achievement  at  the  hands 
of  the  mob — the  people?  Praise,  praise, 
praise!     Hysterical  acclaim,  a  great  bowing 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

of  heads  and  stretching  of  necks !  The  crowd 
chokes  with  the  dust  of  a  triumph  one  day,  and 
spits  on  the  ground  the  next;  and  the  man  of 
that  triumph  is  fortunate  if  he  come  not  in 
the  way  of  the  spittle.  No  man  is  truly  great 
till  he  comes  to  know  the  mockery,  the  silly  in- 
consequence of  the  plaudits  of  the  throng. 
And  then  what  weight  can  this  adulation  of  the 
humanity  he  spurns  have,  when  placed  in  the 
balance  against  a  woman's  witchery !  The 
woman  who  fascinates !  She  too  can  praise, 
can  flatter,  can — oh,  but  her  eyes  are  orbs  of 
light,  her  touch  is  fire,  her  hair  is  yellow  flame, 
her  breath  is  hot  from  the  scorching  of  hearts, 
her  kiss  is  the  seal  of  oblivion ! " 

Woolford  had  leaped  from  his  chair,  and 
was  now  pacing  the  floor  with  nervous,  reeling 
steps.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  were  afire, 
his  gestures  wild  and  sweeping.  He  stopped 
suddenly,  and  bent  on  Marcia  a  frenzied,  un- 
recognising  look. 

"  I  know  a  woman,"  he  said,  "  a  woman  of 
that  same  race — the  race  of  Helen  and  Cleo- 
patra and  the  rest.  You  never  saw  her — of 
course  you  never  saw  her.  She — she  is — calling. 
I  must  go.  Three  times  I  have  been  there — 
three  times,  and  failed  to  find  her.  Now  I'll 
not  fail!" 


«80  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

He  was  in  a  delirium.  All  sense  of  time,  ties, 
and  self  had  vanished.  Marcia  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  tried  to  lead  him  to  a  chair.  He 
would  not  be  led,  but  shook  her  off  as  if  he  knew 
her  not.  She  implored  him  to  be  calm.  He 
did  not  look  at  her,  and  paid  no  heed  even  when 
with  a  despairing  cry  she  fell  to  the  floor, 
hurled  there  by  his  violence.  In  the  library 
doorway  he  stopped,  clutched  the  drapery  in 
one  hand,  passed  the  other  over  his  brow,  and 
stood  for  an  instant  hesitating.  Once  he  turned 
his  contorted  face  upon  Marcia,  who  was  rising 
from  the  floor,  haggard  and  wild-eyed.  Then 
he  swayed  backward  and  forward,  still  grasp- 
ing the  drapery  in  his  tightening  hand. 

**  I'm  coming,"  he  said,  in  yielding,  tuneful 
cadence.  "  Don't  look  at  me  so — don't,  dear ! 
There  is  sufi'ering  in  your  eyes.  Your  neck — 
your  lips  are — ^yes,  queen,  I  come !  " 

He  stepped  into  the  hallway,  and  the  heavy 
curtain,  torn  from  its  fastenings,  fell  in  a  heap 
behind  him.  Marcia  by  this  time  was  up  and 
stumbling  after  him.  She  flung  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  clung  to  him;  but  the 
strength  of  her  despair  was  nothing  to  his 
strength  in  rapture.  He  was  going  to  his 
queen.  Mind  and  body  knew  one  purpose; 
nothing  else  could  touch  him.     He  pushed  her 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  231 

rudely  from  him  and  did  not  look  at  her  again, 
but  took  his  hat  and  coat  from  the  rack  and  left 
the  house  without  another  word. 

Marcia  was  transfixed  with  terror.  The  min- 
utes passed  as  she  stood  there  trying  to  think. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  brow  bewildered. 
Where  was  he  going?  What  could  she  do  to 
stop  him.'*  Who  was  there  to  help  her.?  Dr. 
Hammond  could  not  return  in  time.  Drake? 
She  shrank  within  herself  at  the  thought  of 
going  to  him  and  acknowledging  all.  Mollie? 
No,  she  must  not  call.  She  would  follow  him 
alone.  There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Already 
her  brother's  hurried  stride  was  carrying  him 
far  down  the  street. 

With  a  sobbing  cry  that  tore  all  doubt  and 
hesitation  from  her  heart,  and  put  her  fears 
into  God's  keeping,  she  snatched  a  cloak  from 
the  rack,  plunged  into  the  night,  and  followed 
Henry's  leading. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert. 

— Thompson's  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

Marcia  hastened  on  with  a  purpose  strong 
enough,  but  with  a  plan  so  vague,  so  pitiably 
vague,  that  she  dared  not  think  of  what  she 
was  about  to  do.  Indeed,  she  could  not  think. 
Her  brain  was  inert,  her  senses  numbed,  her 
heart  alone  remained  on  duty.  Somehow,  with- 
out feeling  it,  she  knew  the  night  was  raw  and 
cold,  the  avenue  wind-swept  and  deserted;  and 
she  was  sure,  without  really  having  seen  him, 
that,  as  she  came  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  her 
brother  had  just  passed  beneath  the  arc-lamp 
almost  a  block  away.  Precipitately  she  gath- 
ered up  her  skirts,  and  ran.  That  effort,  the 
wind  upon  her  face,  the  lapse  of  time,  served 
a  little  to  revive  her.  She  did  not  halt,  did  not 
think  of  halting.  Nothing  but  bewilderment 
or  mishap  could  have  stopped  her  now,  for  the 
mind  had  heard  the  summons  of  the  heart,  and 
was  obeying  it.  Henry's  stride  was  swift,  but 
as  long  as  he  should  not  run,  she,  running  at 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  233 

intervals,  could  keep  up  with  him.  To  follow 
him  was  easy  at  that  hour  of  the  night.  The 
storm  had  driven  almost  all  wayfarers  home; 
and  block  after  block'  they  went,  these  two,  un- 
heeded and  unseen.  All  the  length  of  a  long 
street,  northward  of  home,  they  travelled  thus, 
Henry  striding  on,  with  never  a  look  around 
him  or  behind  him,  his  coat  unbuttoned  and 
flying  unheeded  in  the  wind;  Marcia  half  a 
block  away,  her  eyes  intent  upon  him  lest  he 
turn  to  right  or  left  and  be  lost  to  her,  one 
hand  holding  the  cloak  tight  around  her  shoul- 
ders, the  other  looping  up  the  long  skirts  that, 
like  perverse  imps,  tugged  at  her  slender 
ankles ;  an  incongruous,  inexplicable,  tragic 
sight,  these  two — strange  pursuer  and  more 
strange  pursued.  But  the  night  has  many 
secrets  such  as  this  that  the  firesides  never 
know! 

In  a  little  while  Marcia  was  aware  that  the 
streets  were  no  longer  familiar  to  her.  They 
had  left  the  neighbourhood  of  stately  mansions 
and  well-kept  walks ;  and,  having  turned  into  a 
street  that  veered  slightly  to  the  eastward,  they 
were  now  passing  dwelhng-houses  of  more  un- 
pretentious aspect,  with  here  and  there  a  dark- 
ened shop,  and  an  all-night  drug  store,  and  a 
sombre  church  that  promised  nothing  of  help 


SIM  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

or  consolation.  Soon  in  their  turn  these  dwell- 
ings dwindled  to  meagre  cottages,  and  the  shops 
increased,  and  saloons  contested  with  the  drug 
stores  for  the  vantage  comers.  The  sidewalks 
became  rough  and  treacherous;  and  what  with 
these,  and  the  appearance  of  people  now  and 
then,  some  loitering  and  some  hurrying,  and  the 
increasing  violence  of  the  storm,  Marcia  found 
the  pursuit  growing  toilsome  and  precarious. 
She  drew  up  a  little  closer  to  her  brother,  and 
panted  from  that  additional  exertion.  Fears 
assailed  her — fear  of  the  storm,  fear  of  the 
midnight  city,  fear  most  of  all  of  failing  in  the 
end.  Once  a  man  who  had  been  lurking  in  a 
doorway  started  to  follow  her,  and  she  nearly 
cried  aloud  for  help.  Again,  a  gang  of 
drunken  ruffians  came  suddenly  upon  her,  and 
with  difficulty  she  checked  a  frantic  impulse  to 
run  with  all  her  might  and  throw  herself  in  her 
brother's  arms.  But  the  fear  of  him,  and  the 
fear  that  she  might  thus  sacrifice  all  her  chances 
of  saving  him,  were  greater  than  all  her  other 
fears,  and  nerved  her  to  her  duty. 

By  this  time  their  surroundings  had  entirely 
changed.  All  Marcia's  senses  reported  to  her 
the  strange,  vulgar,  unkempt  character  of  the 
streets  they  trod,  skirting  the  business  centre 
of  the  city :  httle  shops,  market-places,  stables, 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  235 

smithies,  bar-rooms,  negro-  and  poor-white 
habitations  intermingled,  all  emitted  odours 
that  almost  nauseated  her;  uncurtained  win- 
dows revealed  interiors  that  frightened  her; 
the  wind  brought  to  her  straining  ears  a  ragged 
medley  of  harsh,  wicked,  and  stunning  noises 
that  appalled  her.  But  on  and  on,  down  and 
down,  they  went,  Henry  never  checking  his 
speed  or  looking  to  right  or  left ;  Marcia  falter- 
ing a  little,  but  calling  up  all  her  reserves  of 
courage  and  determination.  The  wind  blew 
fiercer,  the  fine  snow  gathered  on  Marcia's 
shoulders,  the  wetness  of  the  stones  penetrated 
her  thin  shoes,  and  she  was  chilled  through  and 
through.  A  shiver,  a  sob,  a  stifled  moan ;  a 
swaying  in  the  wind,  and  an  aimless  catching 
at  a  bleak,  black  wall;  and  then  a  brave  and 
final  effort,  and  onward  again — onward,  for 
Henry  was  still  in  sight. 

They  crossed  street  after  street  which  were 
almost  emptied  of  people;  long  vistas  of  swirl- 
ing blue-white  lights,  with  fringes  of  incan- 
descent yellow,  and  the  headlight  of  a  cable-car 
far  yonder  like  a  warm,  red  star  of  comfort 
pointing  to  some  the  happy  homeward  way. 
Finally,  one  block  further  down,  Henry  turned 
a  corner  to  the  left.  Marcia  hastened  after 
him,   fairly  stumbled  around  the  comer,  and 


JJ86  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

there  stopped  short,  gasping  for  breath,  nearly 
fainting  from  weariness,  drooping,  wilting, 
shrinking  from  sheer  horror  and  shame.  For 
now,  all  at  once,  like  a  fabled  leper  island  lift- 
ing out  of  the  uncharted  sea,  she  saw  as  she 
sped  the  French  Quarter  rising  from  the 
shadows  of  the  slums  to  meet  her.  That  reali- 
sation thrilled  her,  and  then  chilled  her,  and  at 
last  sent  the  blood  burning  through  her  veins 
to  paint  with  humiliation  the  whiteness  of  her 
face. 

Marcia  had  learned  from  the  books  she  had 
read  and  her  talks  with  Henry  upon  the  most 
material  themes,  that  there  was  a  half-world, 
a  place  of  banished  things ;  and  yet  the  knowl- 
edge had  not  sophisticated  her ;  familiarity  with 
her  brother's  probings  had  not  tainted  her; 
tales  of  the  slums  had  not  impressed  her  as 
aught  but  tales  of  a  twilight  land,  peopled  with 
dreadful  spectral  figures. 

After  all,  how  near  at  any  moment  are  these, 
the  purest  and  the  best,  to  the  vilest  and  the 
worst  that  God  has  made!  Guard  the  home 
as  you  may ;  set  cordons  of  police  around  the 
place  of  banished  things ;  erect  barriers  between 
the  virtuous  and  the  vile;  and  yet,  there  shall 
come  a  day — ^yes,  many  a  day — when  the  scar- 
let and  the  white  shall  meet,  to  blend  or  to  sepa- 


ART  THOV  THE  MAN  ?         ^37 

rate  again — but  shall  meet  for  an  instant,  for 
an  hour,  or  for  all  time,  as  fate  shall  order  them. 
Daily  do  skeletons  stalk  from  locked  and  bolted 
closets;  daily  do  black  sheep  plague  and  dis- 
grace the  gentle  fold;  daily  does  the  past  give 
up  its  buried  sins,  and  the  future  unroll  its 
dreaded  destinies.  There  is  no  heaven  but  has 
had  its  angels  fallen,  no  hell  without  some  loved 
one  there. 

Vice  lacks  the  fine  fortitude  of  virtue ;  it  can- 
not endure  adversity;  it  falters  before  priva- 
tion; it  whines  like  a  whipped  cur  beneath  the 
lash  of  punishment;  it  droops  its  painted  head 
and  surrenders  meekly  to  the  storm.  All  the 
gay  and  lightsome  look  was  gone  from  the 
street  that  night:  the  buildings  confessed  their 
worst  dilapidation ;  the  gutters,  filled  with  mud 
and  snow,  gave  out  their  most  disgusting 
smells;  the  wind  charged  up  and  down  to  find 
out  every  decaying  cornice,  and  to  rattle  every 
patched  shutter  and  every  broken  door.  If  the 
sound  of  laughter  came  from  within  the  bat- 
tered walls,  it  was  but  cold  and  perfunctory; 
if  some  wretched  hireling  hammered  on  a  piano, 
it  was  plain  the  piano  was  out  of  tune;  if  men 
and  women  appeared  upon  the  sidewalk,  it  was 
only  to  hurry  somewhere,  as  if  by  grim  want 
driven.     The  place  that  night  was  the  picture, 


Sd8  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

the  symbol,  the  confession  of  sordid,  ugly,  mis- 
erable Sin. 

Woolford  had  gone  but  a  little  distance  from 
the  corner,  and  had  mounted  the  stone  steps  of 
the  bravest-looking  house  that  was  to  be  seen. 
Marcia  crept  along,  with  one  hand  upon  the 
clammy  wall  of  brick,  and  watched  Henry  ring 
the  doorbell.  She  saw  a  negro  open  the  door 
and  bow  her  brother  in.  She  tried  to  shout  to 
the  servant,  but  her  voice  was  only  a  sorry 
whisper.  The  door  slammed,  and  Marcia  stood 
alone,  trembling  and  exhausted,  upon  the  side- 
walk, till  her  temples  throbbed  as  if  they  were 
about  to  burst.  Then  a  purpose  seized  her — 
an  impulse  —  an  inspiration.  She  walked 
bravely  to  the  house,  mounted  the  steps,  and 
rang  the  bell.  As  she  listened  to  its  clanging 
and  its  reverberations,  a  new  terror  clutched 
her.  She  would  have  fled  away  in  panic,  but 
the  recollection  of  her  brother  held  her  there. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  the  same 
servant  who  had  admitted  Woolford.  Marcia 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  but  mustered 
up  her  courage,  and  without  raising  her  head, 
said: 

"  I  wish  to  see " 

The  negro,  thinking  she  wanted  to  see  Elise, 
interrupted  her;  and  in  a  voice  which,  like  her 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  239 

own,  seemed  to  come  from  a  long  distance,  said 
hurriedly,  as  he  pointed  to  the  stairs: 

"  Straight  ahead — one  flight  up." 

Without  a  second's  faltering  Marcia  started 
up  the  stairs,  not  knowing  whom  she  would  find 
there.  The  negro,  as  she  passed  him,  looked 
after  her  doubtfully,  and  started  forward  to 
prevent  her;  but  the  bell  brought  him  to  his 
work  again,  and  Marcia  was  permitted  to 
go  on. 

Woolford,  in  the  meantime,  had  gone 
straight  to  the  gambling-rooms.  The  long 
walk  through  the  biting  wind  had  cooled  his 
blood,  and  for  the  time  at  least  he  was  rational 
and  self-possessed. 

The  girl,  without  looking  to  right  or  left, 
followed  the  direction  indicated  and  rapidly 
walked  up  the  stairs.  At  the  first  door,  which 
chanced  to  have  been  left  aj  ar,  she  knocked 
timidly.  No  answer  came.  Waiting  a  moment, 
she  ventured  in.  No  one  was  there.  Her  foot- 
falls made  no  sound  as  she  walked  unsteadily 
across  the  floor,  looking  timorously  around 
the  bright  room.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  her- 
self in  a  mirror — a  pale,  wild-eyed,  lovely  crea- 
ture, with  many  locks  of  rich  auburn  hair 
astray,  and  garments  all  disordered.  She 
started  back  with  a  short  gasp,  not  knowing 


£40  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

for  an  instant  that  it  was  herself.  Then  she 
moved  on  again,  trying  to  hasten,  and  at  length 
passed  through  other  open  doors,  stepped  into 
the  middle  of  the  second  room,  and  stood  there 
staring.  Her  eyes  wandered  from  wall  to  wall, 
slowly  comprehending;  and  finally  they  rested 
upon  a  great  mirror.  In  the  mirror  there  was 
a  reflection  of  a  half-open  door,  and  through 
the  door  the  vision  of  a  gorgeous,  rose-coloured 
room,  and  in  the  room  a  man  and  a  woman. 
She  could  see  that  the  woman  there  was  beauti- 
ful, and  that  her  white,  bare  arms  were  aroimd 
the  man's  neck. 

Marcia  leaned  forward  and  peered  timidly; 
then  peered  again.  Something  fell  upon  her 
heart,  and  crushed  it  in  her  bosom  till  it  lay 
quite  still.  Her  lips  parted,  and  a  little  whim- 
pering cry  passed  them.  Her  brain,  already 
tired  out,  refused  to  toil  any  more.  Still  she 
looked.  And  at  last  she  saw,  and  knew.  The 
man  was  not  her  brother,  was  not  Henry;  it 
was  Allan  Drake. 

She  stood  there  very  quiet,  a  long  time  it 
seemed  to  her.  Would  they  never  come  and 
lead  her  away?  Was  she  to  stand  there  thus 
for  ever?  Her  parched  tongue  sought  her  lips 
and  burnt  them.  She  grew  cold,  and  shivered 
miserably.     She  tried  to  raise  her  hand,  and  to 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  241 

arouse  herself  from  this  awful  dream.  The 
room  was  growing  smaller;  the  walls,  the  floor, 
the  ceiling,  were  closing  in.  But  she  could  not 
save  herself,  could  not  take  her  gaze  off  the 
mirror.  Then  the  walls,  the  mirror,  and  every- 
thing began  to  dance  around  her.  She  grew 
faint,  ill,  and  sharp  pains  shot  through  her 
head.  She  staggered,  swayed  backward,  and 
caught  herself;  held  on  a  few  seconds  longer; 
and  then,  with  a  moaning  cry,  fell  to  the  floor 
unconscious. 

Drake  and  Elise  started  up;  listened  for 
other  sounds,  but  heard  no  more;  and  rushed 
into  the  room  whence  these  significant  noises 
came.  Elise,  looking  at  the  girl  prone  upon 
the  floor,  did  not  for  a  minute  understand;  but 
Drake,  seeing  Marcia  lying  there,  with  white 
face  upturned,  felt  a  great  sickness  of  horror 
and  dismay.  Quickly  kneeling  at  her  side,  he 
raised  her  limp,  lifeless  form  upon  his  knee,  and 
called  her  name: 

"  Marcia !  Marcia !     What  is  It,  dear  ?     Tell 


me 


(  » 


Elise  stood  watching  him.  Instinctively  she 
felt  that  he  was  lost  to  her,  saw  that  she  was 
nothing  in  the  presence  of  that  pale  girl  lying 
there,  so  still  and  so  beautiful,  in  Drake's  arms. 
As  the  full  realisation  of  her  failure  dawned 


24^  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

upon  her,  there  swept  over  her  face  a  look  of 
anguish,  stiffening  swiftly  into  hate.  Only  a 
minute  did  she  permit  herself  to  suffer  thus  in 
silence.  She  laughed  scornfully;  and  then, 
drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  she 
sneered : 

"  So  your  sweetheart  has  followed  you !  A 
pretty  thing  to  do !  " 

Drake  did  not  answer,  but  lifting  Marcia  in 
his  arms,  rose  and  started  for  the  door.  Elise 
watched  him  going — going  from  her;  then  all 
her  confessed  desire  for  him  returned,  re- 
doubled, intensified,  and  the  fiery  passion  in  her 
blood  changed  to  a  steely  impulse  of  revenge. 
She  sprang  forward  and  grabbed  him  rudely 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  Go !  "  she  hissed.  "  Go,  and  take  your 
sweetheart  with  you !  Bon  debarras!  Her 
brother  is  the  strangler !  " 

Drake's  face  blanched  and  the  strength  went 
out  of  it.  He  turned  and  gave  Elise  one  long, 
searching  look,  and  then,  without  a  word, 
carried  Marcia,  still  unconscious,  down  to  the 
street,  and  they  were  driven  swiftly  to  her 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves. 
By  each  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 
Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss, 
The  brave  man  with  a  sword! 

— Oscar  Wilde's  Ballad  of  Beading  Gaol. 

Elise,  left  alone,  remained  where  she  stood  like 
one  petrified.  Suddenly,  her  body  undulated 
slightly ;  her  breast  heaved ;  her  eyes  glistened 
wildly,  and  then,  in  a  voice  filled  with  despair, 
she  cried : 

"  Tout  est  fini!  "  and  flung  herself  upon  the 
couch,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed. 

Presently,  she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
footsteps.  Before  she  had  time  to  compose  her- 
self, Woolford  entered  the  room,  unbidden. 
She  saw  at  once  a  look  in  his  eyes  different  from 
anything  she  had  ever  seen  there  before;  but 
gave  no  sign  that  she  noticed  it.  With  daring 
fearlessness,  she  took  his  hand  and  drew  him 
down  among  the  pillows  of  the  couch,  caress- 
ingly. He  was  silent  and  unresponsive,  and 
looked  steadily  at  her  with  the  peculiar  ex- 
248 


244  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

pression  becoming  plainer  in  his  eyes.  At  last, 
in  a  voice  that  she  was  gratified  to  know  was 
calm,  and  with  a  tilting  of  her  pretty  head  that 
was  just  a  reminiscence  of  her  coquetry,  she 
asked : 

"  You  will  give  me  a  few  minutes  ?  " 
Woolford  did  not  answer;  but  his  fixed  gaze 
never  for  a  second  left  her  when  she  rose  and 
walked  to  her  writing-desk.  Taking  a  sheet  of 
tinted  paper,  she  wrote  a  few  words,  hurriedly ; 
then  the  hand  that  held  the  pen  halted.  Slowly 
she  turned  and  faced  him.  His  eyes  still 
gloated  with  maniacal  intent ;  but  her  gaze  met 
them  unflinchingly,  and  remained  thus  riveted 
while  her  thought,  after  a  brief  resting  on  the 
man  before  her,  eliminated  him  and  passed  on 
to  the  man  she  loved.  Should  she  conceal  the 
truth?  Yes,  it  were  better  that  he  should  not 
know.  Surely  it  would  add  to  his  happiness. 
Again  she  resumed  her  writing,  murmuring  the 
words  very  softly  to  the  end;  then  hfting 
the  letter  to  her  h'ps,  kissed  it,  put  it  in  an 
envelope,  addressed  it,  carefully  sealed  it,  and 
imprinted  her  monogram  upon  the  molten  wax. 
Now  she  rose,  and  laid  it  upon  the  desk  where  it 
could  not  fail  to  be  seen ;  and  as  she  did  this, 
her  fingers  touched  a  slender  paper-knife, 
shaped  like  a  dagger,  with  a  long  steel  blade 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  245 

and  a  curiously  wrought  handle  of  gold.  She 
picked  it  up  and  toyed  with  it ;  then  her  lips 
parted,  her  breath  came  quickly,  and  the 
shadows  and  lights  came  and  went  across  her 
face  like  the  sunshine  and  clouds  of  a  windy 
April  day.  But  when  she  walked  across  the 
room  to  Woolford,  the  lights  had  gone  and  the 
shadows  were  heavy  and  there  was  upon  her 
lips  only  the  recollection  of  a  smile.  Sadly, 
sweetly,  she  put  her  left  arm  around  his  neck. 
He  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  entering  the 
room. 

**  I  know  why  you  have  come,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "  But  you  couldn't  kill  me  if  you  wanted 
to."  She  spoke  with  tender  plaintiveness,  but 
without  a  quiver.  "  To-night,  I  have  no  fear," 
she  went  on,  "  because  I  do  not  care  for  you.  I 
never  have  loved  you."  Her  eyes  met  his  stead- 
fastly ;  and  when  Woolford  raised  his  hand,  she 
put  her  own  upon  it,  and  his  arm  fell  to  his  side. 

"  I  have  just  written  a  letter,"  she  concluded, 
with  deliberate  emphasis;  but  when  the  words 
passed  they  took  away  the  rubies  from  her  lips. 
"  It  lies  there,  on  my  desk.  If  they  should 
blame  you,  that  letter  will  clear  you." 

She  paused ;  their  eyes  still  met  in  a  look  that 
was  understanding,  challenge,  and  smouldering 
fires  of  memory  and  love — a  look  that  was  also 


246  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

resignation  and  farewell.  Then,  a  new  spark 
kindled  far  down  in  the  depths  of  Woolford's 
eyes;  and  Elise  saw  it  and  watched  it  glow. 
And  when  she  saw  that  it  was  about  to  burst 
into  flame,  she  lifted  her  right  hand,  which  held 
the  tiny  dagger,  and  so  quickly  that  he  barely 
saw  the  gleam  of  the  steel,  she  plunged  the  blade 
into  her  breast.  Before  Woolf ord  realised  what 
had  happened,  or  could  catch  her,  she  fell  face 
downward  upon  the  floor.  For  a  few  seconds 
he  stared  at  the  prostrate  figure,  then  knelt  be- 
side her.  Slowly  a  faint  gleam  of  compre- 
hension seemed  to  develop  in  the  disordered 
brain  as  he  leaned  over  and  looked  at  her.  He 
hardly  understood ;  but  presently  began  to  see 
that  she  had  anticipated  his  intent ;  that  he  had 
driven  her  to  this,  and  a  vague  horror  tore  at 
his  heart. 

Elise's  maid  heard  the  sound  of  the  fall  and 
ran  into  the  room.  Upon  seeing  some  one  bend- 
ing over  the  body  of  her  mistress,  she  thereupon 
turned,  and  ran  through  the  house,  screaming: 
"  Elise !  The  strangler !  The  strangler !  " 
Men  from  the  gambling-rooms  rushed  up  the 
stairs;  but  were  met  at  the  top  by  Woolf  ord. 
His  face  was  distorted,  and  there  was  such  wild- 
ness  and  menace  in  his  eyes  that,  with  one  ac- 
cord, they  turned  and  stumbled  in  a  panic  down 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  247 

the  stairs  and  out  into  the  street.  In  another 
minute,  he  was  alone  in  the  house — alone,  save 
for  the  figure  of  the  girl,  prone  upon  the  roses 
that  were  now  taking  a  redder  stain  than  they 
had  ever  known. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

For  none  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 
His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 

— Ballad  of  Reading  Oaol. 

Once  more  a  whisper  went  through  the  Quar- 
ter. A  tamale  peddler  bearing  a  steaming  can 
and  singing  his  unmelodious  song,  emerged  from 
an  alley  two  blocks  away  from  Therdier's.  He 
was  an  outcast,  subdued  by  recklessness  and 
want  to  the  lowest  purposes  of  commerce;  he 
sold  hot  and  greasy  delicacies,  so  called,  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Quarter  and  their  guests, 
receiving  food  and  lodging  for  his  services;  his 
face  was  disintegrated  and  his  soul  dissolved  by 
drink  and  by  exposure ;  he  was  a  type  of  the  hu- 
man dregs  of  the  city.  This  man,  coming  out  of 
the  alley,  stopped,  and  listened.  He  heard 
something  that  was  unusual ;  and,  turning,  hur- 
ried back  through  the  alley  to  the  dirty  factory 
where  his  wares  were  made. 

**  Something  wrong  down  there,"  he  said  to 
the  man  in  charge;  and  putting  down  his  can, 
hastened  toward  the  street  in  front  of  Ther- 
dier's.    He  found  men  standing  in  every  door- 
248 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  249 

way,  listening  and  looking.  From  side  streets 
came  other  persons  of  various  description,  but 
uniformly  evil :  tramps  with  disordered  clothing 
and  unkempt  hair ;  saloon  hangers-on,  with  blear 
eyes  and  cringing  gait ;  ruffians  with  scarred 
countenance  and  wary  mien;  the  ragtag  and 
bobtail  of  the  shanties  and  the  sheds  and  the 
box-cars.  These  joined  the  groups  of  pale 
gamblers,  sleek  bartenders,  and  half-intoxicated 
visitors  in  the  Quarter,  as  they  formed  slowly 
under  the  arc-lamps,  all  turning  their  heads  to 
right  and  to  left,  with  eyes  watchful  and 
oblique,  nudging  one  another,  and  questioning 
in  tones  inexplicably  subdued.  The  tamale-man 
attached  himself  to  the  first  group  he  reached, 
and  added  his  whisper  to  the  general  sibilation. 
He  got  no  answer  to  his  query,  for  there  was 
only  a  shaking  of  heads,  and  a  puzzled  look  of 
dread. 

It  is  not  always  the  finest  nature  that  most 
subtly  feels ;  for  there  is  in  the  breaking  down 
of  reason,  and  in  the  degradation  of  soul  and 
body,  some  singular  return  to  nature  that  re- 
vives in  man  the  primary  instincts  of  the  brute. 
All  the  achievements  of  the  boasted  sixth  sense 
of  refined  and  selected  nature  cannot  match  the 
acuteness  of  animal  suggestion  that  marks  the 
gathering  of  a  mob. 


260  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  commotion.  From  the 
direction  of  Therdier's  came  a  cry,  terrible, 
maddening,  hoarse  with  anger  and  fear;  and 
as  the  groups  here  and  there  parted  a  little,  and 
the  men  strained  their  ears  and  bent  their  heads 
to  listen,  there  appeared  a  man  running,  waving 
his  arms,  and  crying  out  almost  incoherently 
a  name  that  froze  the  groups  to  granite.  The 
stumbling,  shrieking  man,  hatless,  and  with 
clothing  all  awry,  was  old  Pete,  the  gambler. 

"  The  strangler !  The  strangler !  "  were  the 
words  that  tore  his  lips. 

He  was  seized,  held,  and  madly  questioned. 

"  The  strangler ! "  he  shrieked ;  and  put  his 
hands  in  terror  upon  his  face. 

**  The  strangler !  Where  ?  "  was  the  rising 
cry,  when  the  men  had  got  their  senses  and  their 
tongues  again. 

"  Therdier's ! — Elise !  "  the  trembling  wretch 
exclaimed. 

The  words  were  taken  up  by  individuals,  by 
groups,  by  crowds,  by  the  gathering  mob. 

"  Ehse !     Elise  is  dead !  " 

"  The  strangler  is  out  again !  " 

At  the  first  hearing  of  the  hateful  word, 
every  man  and  every  group  was  stopped  and 
stilled,  as  if  with  a  lightning  shock  that  left 
them  standing  stark  statues  in  the  night. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  251 

"  The  strangler  has  killed  Elise  1 " 
Numbness  of  terror  yielded  to  sullen  rage, 
and  rage  to  a  hunger  for  revenge.  Men  found 
their  voices,  their  hearts,  and  such  brains  as 
were  theirs.  The  cries  of  horror  were  welded 
into  a  brazen  chorus.  Instinctively  the  groups 
united,  began  to  move,  formed  into  a  solid  mass, 
and,  with  old  Pete  in  the  centre,  swayed  and 
surged  towards  Therdier's.  In  front  of  the 
gambhng-house  this  throng  met  another,  which 
had  assembled  around  the  stricken  cluster  of 
pallid  gamblers  and  dumb  negro  servants,  who 
had  been  driven  pell-mell  from  the  place  of 
death.  With  aimless  gesture  and  disconnected 
sentences,  they  told  what  had  happened.  The 
strangler  was  there  in  the  house  now,  and  it  was 
death  to  any  one  who  should  dare  to  enter.  The 
story,  gathering  details  as  rapidly  as  the  shiver- 
ing servitors  were  encouraged  by  the  crowd  to 
speak,  spread  from  circle  to  circle  of  the  mob, 
to  be  embellished  with  fresh  horror  at  every 
leap  it  made. 

The  rabble  now  filled  the  street  from  curb  to 
curb.  It  was  a  heterogenous  mob,  yet  unified  by 
fear  and  anger  and  a  purpose  of  revenge.  With 
the  ruffians  and  the  ragamuffins,  the  gamblers 
and  the  barkeepers,  there  was  gradually  mingled 
a  contingent  of  sturdy  working  men  from  cer- 


252  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

tain  humble  but  respectable  streets  near  by; 
shopkeepers  who  had  heard  the  tumult  and  had 
closed  their  doors  to  hurry  to  the  Quarter ;  well- 
dressed  men  who  might  have  found  it  difficult  to 
explain  their  so-sudden  appearance  there ;  and  a 
full  quota  of  those  persons  who  appear  on  pub- 
lic occasions  of  whatever  character,  and  who  are 
The  People  in  comedy,  in  tragedy,  and  in  every 
kind  of  play. 

One  thing  was  strange — and  yet  by  no  means 
strange:  there  was  no  woman  there — not  a 
scrubwoman,  not  a  greasy  housewife,  not  a 
dancer  from  a  beer-garden,  not  a  painted  out- 
cast ;  not  one  woman  was  in  that  throng.  The 
women  were  assembled  in  the  far  back  rooms  of 
the  Quarter,  where  the  lights  were  low,  and  the 
doors  and  shutters  bolted,  locked,  and  barred. 
That  name,  which  had  silenced  for  a  few  min- 
utes the  swarming  men  out  there  on  the  streets, 
had  stunned  the  women,  congealed  their  blood, 
and  renewed  in  them  all  the  known  fears  and 
all  the  imknown  forebodings  that  afflict  these 
banished  ones,  spite  of  all  their  veneer  of  insen- 
sibility. They  were  nujnb  and  dumb  with 
terror. 

The  mob  became  compact ;  its  courage  grew ; 
its  understanding  of  what  had  taken  place  bred 
in  its  thousand  hearts  a  mad  desire  to  kill.     A 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?         253 

mob  is  a  monster,  having  all  the  human  passions 
and  desires,  but  no  certain  brain.  It  is  whim 
incarnate,  force  unwieldy,  brutality  in  extreme. 
It  neither  reasons  nor  plans,  but  only  craves, 
and,  with  guttural  exclamation,  waits  for  any 
guidance.  Till  the  mind  is  given  it,  a  mob  is 
just  a  monster,  which  may  lunge  against  a  build- 
ing and  wreck  it,  or  crush  out  a  few  lives  in 
undirected  rage,  but  cannot  do  its  will.  Some- 
times it  is  wearied  with  its  own  fury,  and  slinks 
away  in  harmless  discontent,  muttering,  and 
licking  its  unsatisfied  and  hanging  lips.  Some- 
times a  leader  is  given  it — a  man  with  nerve  and 
brain,  who  leaps  full-armed  and  loud-voiced  into 
action,  like  a  hthe  deity  of  battle  from  the  head 
of  a  ponderous  god.  Then  the  mob  no  longer  is 
a  monster  merely,  but  a  thing  with  a  purpose, 
dire,  complete,  and  capable  of  anything. 

This  mob,  waiting  before  that  house  of 
horror,  had  found  its  voice  but  no  brain  to  guide 
its  fury.  The  cries  and  shouts  redoubled  and 
multiplied.  The  tamale-man,  swaying  near  the 
centre  of  the  crowd,  cried,  "  Kill  him !  Kill 
him ! "  till  his  tongue  was  swollen  and  his  voice 
hoarse.  Old  Pete,  with  the  image  of  the  dead 
Elise  burning  deep  into  his  long-stagnant  brain, 
shrieked  with  rage.  The  ragged  hoodlums 
from  the  railroad  yards,  revelling  in  the  ruffian 


^54         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

glory  of  the  scene,  bellowed  like  beasts,  maid  with 
sight  of  blood.  There  was  one  who  yelled  con- 
tinually, "  A  rope !  A  rope !  "  Another's  de- 
sire was  centred  upon  red  flame,  and  cried  for 
wood  and  torches.  Still  another  fumed,  and 
swore  he  would  cut  out  the  strangler's  heart. 
But  all  the  cries  were  evidently  to  no  purpose; 
and  though  the  rabble  yelled  till  every  voice  was 
hoarse,  with  the  indistinctness  that  gives  a  pecu- 
liar quality  of  barbarity  to  human  utterance, 
yet  did  the  man  in  Therdier's  maintain  his  si- 
lence and  hold  the  house.  Closer  and  closer 
pressed  the  mob ;  and  now  and  then  a  wave  of  fear 
swept  over  the  forward  lines  of  men,  as  if  the  de- 
stroyer was  at  their  throats;  and  there  was  a 
frantic  scrambhng  backward,  and  the  impulse 
of  self-preservation  checked  the  fury  for  a  little 
while.  But  steadily,  when  time  passed  and  the 
strangler  did  not  appear,  the  mob  grew  bolder, 
and  pressed  forward  till  the  foremost  members 
of  it  touched  the  walls  of  the  grey-stone  build- 
ing. From  the  two  ends  of  the  block,  the  elec- 
tric lamps  cast  a  wavering  whiteness  upon  the 
upturned  faces,  and  showed  them  pallid  and 
drawn ;  but  the  red  light  from  the  door  and  the 
windows  of  Therdier's  repainted  the  crimson 
and  the  blue  of  swollen  veins  and  bloated  faces. 
Grimaces  and  leers  and  all  the  distortions  of 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  255 

passion  loosed,  made  of  the  assemblage  a  huge 
exaggeration  and  a  monstrous  show,  as  if  a  con- 
gregation of  gargoyles  from  some  mediseval 
cornice,  or  the  demon  shapes  of  a  sad  poet's 
Hades,  had  been  summoned  there  for  purposes 
untold  of  men. 

And  then,  when  the  fury  of  the  mob  had 
reached  the  climax,  and  the  blood  of  every  man, 
from  worldngman  to  vagabond,  was  heated  till 
it  burnt  the  flesh,  and  stretched  the  nostrils,  and 
reddened  the  straining  eyes — at  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  the  night,  there  came  the  leader — the 
man  with  the  abihty  to  turn  all  this  savage 
possibility  into  action.  From  the  very  centre 
of  the  mob  he  came,  suddenly,  inexplicably,  it 
seemed.  He  pushed  through  the  stinking  press, 
and  was  aided  by  eager  hands  and  shoulders  in 
his  passage  to  the  front.  Not  only  in  his  looks, 
but  in  his  voice  and  touch,  there  was  command. 
Every  man  around  him  felt  it;  and  the  spirit 
of  the  leader  flashed  like  a  spark  of  life  into  and 
through  that  inert  throng;  and  long  before  he 
had  reached  the  place  where  he  could  be  fairly 
seen,  every  unit  in  the  monster  of  a  mob  knew 
that  there  was  a  brain,  a  presence,  and  a  voice 
which  they  could  hear,  see,  follow. 

The  leader,  self-appointed,  but  speedily  ac- 
cepted at  his  own  estimate  of  himself,  with 


t56         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

amazing  celerity  won  to  the  front,  and  mounted 
the  stone  steps  of  the  Therdier  establishment. 
Two  thousand  men  looked  at  him,  and  not  one 
knew  him.  He  was  a  man  of  medium  height, 
with  long  grey  hair  and  gray  mustache  of  the 
military  fashion.  His  clothing  was  ill-fitting 
and  much  worn ;  his  face,  though  red  and 
bloated  from  hard  living,  was  yet  in  some  way 
resolute;  and  his  blue  eyes  were  bold  and  chal- 
lenging. A  soft,  black  hat  shadowed  his  face 
when  he  first  climbed  the  steps,  but  was  soon 
pushed  back  so  that  all  could  see  his  features 
flaming  in  the  mingled  lights.  In  the  very  fact 
that  he  was  unknown  to  all  that  crowd;  in  the 
suddenness  of  his  appearance  there;  and  in  his 
manner  of  command,  were  all  the  elements- 
mystery,  timeliness,  and  conviction — to  make  his 
leadership  complete.  A  murmur  greeted  him; 
and  then  there  fell  a  silence — the  first  that  had 
visited  this  wild  scene.  Not  having  heard  his 
name  the  rabble  could  not  shout  it;  so  they 
waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Men !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  surely  had 
got  somewhere  the  quahty  of  command,  "  the 
strangler  is  in  this  house.  This  is  his  fourth 
victim!  You  all  know  what  we  should  do  with 
men  who  murder  women.  Let's  get  to  work! 
There    are    machines    shops    yonder.      Bring 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  9  257 

sledges  and  axes.  Down  there  in  the  railroad 
yards  you  will  find  a  steel  rail.  Get  it!  We 
must  batter  down  this  door !  " 

With  a  yell  that  shattered  the  pregnant 
silence,  a  crowd  of  men  left  the  main  body  and 
went  to  obey  his  orders.  From  the  huge  con- 
course that  remained,  a  savage  cheer  was  raised. 
The  military-looking  man  took  off  his  hat, 
wiped  his  brow,  and  calmly  waited.  But  the 
strangler  kept  his  secret  in  the  house ;  and  dead 
Elise  in  her  room  of  roses  was  not  more  still 
than  he. 

In  the  meantime,  the  city  had  become  aware 
that  there  was  trouble  in  the  slums.  On  Six- 
teenth Street  late  loiterers  heard  the  sounds, 
and  listening,  moved  toward  the  Quarter. 
Along  every  business  thoroughfare,  there  was  an 
accumulating  movement  in  that  direction,  doubt- 
ful and  slow  at  first,  but  accelerated  by  the  lift- 
ing of  the  tumult.  The  theatres  now  dis- 
charged their  laughing  throngs ;  and  above  the 
chatter,  merriment,  and  rustle  of  silken  skirts, 
rose  the  surly  murmur  of  the  mob.  Over  these 
people  there  fell  a  curious  silence.  Women 
shuddered,  and  their  escorts  led  them  hastily 
to  cars  and  carriages ;  while  men  and  boys, 
alone  or  in  small  parties,  listening  and  wonder- 
ing, swelled  the  stream  of  humanity  that  poured 


«58  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

toward  the  Quarter.  At  this  time  certain  cab- 
men on  the  corner  leaped  into  their  seats,  and 
drove  rapidly  away.  The  whisper  from  the 
Quarter  spread  far  and  far.  Out  on  the  Hill, 
and  in  distant  suburbs,  women  appeared  at 
doors  and  windows  to  question  the  mumbling 
voices  that  came  on  the  fitful  wind,  now  but 
a  multitudinous  whisper,  now  a  low  muttering, 
like  the  sound  of  water  on  the  rocks,  now  rising 
to  a  roar  like  the  warning  of  a  storm. 

In  the  office  of  the  Record,  word  had  just 
come  over  the  wires  of  the  tumult  down  in  the 
bottoms. 

"  A  mob  in  the  French  Quarter !  "  announced 
Armstrong ;  and  upon  seeing  Drake  entering  at 
that  moment,  hurried  on  with,  "  What  does  it 
mean  ?  " 

Drake's  expression  changed.  He  had  just 
come  from  Marcia,  who  was  slowly  recovering 
under  MoUie's  loving  care.  To  relieve  the  poor 
girl's  fears,  he  had  telephoned  the  French 
Club  to  ascertain  if  Woolford  was  there.  The 
inquiry,  not  without  some  difficulty,  brought  the 
answer  that  he  had  departed.  Marcia,  re- 
assured and  convinced  by  this  that  the  dehrium 
must  have  passed  off,  had  dismissed  him  without 
giving  or  asking  any  explanations.  Drake 
wisely  accepted  the  situation,  and  hastened  ou 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  259 

to  the  office.  The  directness  of  the  question; 
its  close  connection  with  his  own  thoughts ;  the 
accusation  of  Elise  ringing  in  his  ears  confused 
him. 

"  It  may  be  the  strangler !  "  he  exclaimed.  It 
was  the  merciless  conclusion  of  his  mind,  and 
before  he  was  aware  of  the  significance  of  his 
utterance. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  could  believe  this 
thing?  Henry  Woolford  the  strangler.?  Im- 
possible! Monstrous!  Then  an  awful  dread 
of  the  possibility  of  its  being  the  truth  assailed 
him.  He  started  for  the  hat-rack,  when  the 
telephone  rang  again,  and  the  reporter  who  had 
relieved  Murphy  for  an  hour,  yelled  into  the 
instrument  a  message  that  was  loudly  authentic : 

"  Riot  call  from  Market  Street !  "  he  shouted. 
"  Both  wagons  going !  " 

"  You  stay  and  watch  that  end  of  it,"  Arm- 
strong repUed,  and  then,  turning  to  Drake: 
"  Take  all  the  men  here  and  cover  the  mob. 
When  anybody  else  comes  in,  I'll  send  him  down 
to  you.  And,  Drake,  you'll  write  the  main 
story,  as  you  know  the  case.  The  others  will 
help  you  as  you  order  them.  You  can  have  all 
the  space  you  will  be  able  to  fill." 

Drake  and  the  other  men  hastened  out  of  the 
office ;  while  Armstrong  went  to  the  composing- 


JWO         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

room  to  "  kill "  all  the  local  copy  there  was 
in  sight,  and  to  provide  space  for  the  big  story 
that  was  to  come. 

"  If  it's  the  strangler  again,"  said  Arm- 
strong to  the  managing  editor,  "  It  is  the  big- 
gest story  of  the  year.  I've  put  Drake  in 
charge  of  it,  and  have  given  him  all  the  men  he 
can  use.     He'll  spread  himself  on  the  story." 

Drake  and  his  little  squad  heard  the  roar  of 
the  mob  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  street ;  and 
they  set  off  at  a  run.  They  were  quickly  joined 
by  many  other  men  running,  for  by  this  time 
the  rumour  of  a  lynching  had  traversed  the 
city,  and  men  by  thousands  were  gathering  in 
the  Quarter.  The  reporters  were  still  three 
blocks  away  from  the  centre  of  the  disturbance 
when  they  began  to  find  progress  difficult. 
There  was  not  much  clamour  here,  but  every 
man  was  struggling  to  force  his  way  ahead, 
asking  repeatedly  and  uselessly  what  was  going 
on.  Trained  to  this  sort  of  labour,  Drake  and 
his  fellows  made  better  progress  than  all  the 
others,  and  were  soon  within  half  a  block  of 
Therdier's.  Here  they  stuck  fast  in  the  solidi- 
fying mass  of  humanity.  In  front  of  them, 
sounds  arose  that  were  filled  with  promise  of 
things  it  was  their  business  and  their  duty  to 
see;  and  they  chafed  in  helplessness.     A  patrol 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  261 

wagon  with  a  dozen  policemen  in  it,  came  smash- 
ing through  the  crush,  and  was  stopped  by  the 
wall  of  men.  Drake  watched  their  futile  efforts 
to  break  their  way  through  the  mob;  and  he 
realised  that  strategy  was  his  only  recourse 
now.     He  racked  his  brain  for  a  plan. 

**  You  go  back  to  the  office !  "  he  shouted  into 
the  ear  of  one  of  the  reporters.  "  Tell  Arm- 
strong what  the  situation  is.  Then  write  what 
you  have  seen  here,  and  come  back.  We'll  get 
through  to  the  front  somehow." 

At  that  instant  there  was  a  movement  of  the 
crowd  in  the  direction  of  a  side  street,  and  pres- 
ently there  came  running  from  that  place  a 
gang  of  rough  men,  bearing  on  their  shoulders 
a  steel  rail  they  had  picked  up  in  the  railroad 
yards.  With  yells  and  curses,  they  dashed  into 
the  crowd,  and  it  parted  for  them.  Drake  was 
quick  to  see  the  opportunity. 

"  Get  next  to  that  rail !  "  he  cried  to  the  three 
men  who  were  still  with  him.  "  Help  carry  it ! 
And  don't  quit  till  you  get  to  the  front !  I'm 
going  around  to  the  rear  of  the  house." 

With  much  difficulty  he  retraced  his  steps, 
reached  the  corner  of  the  sidewalk  at  the  inter- 
section of  the  streets,  pressed  himself  closely 
against  the  walls  of  the  buildings  on  the  cross 
street,  and  after  a  long  struggle,  forced  his 


«62  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

way  into  the  alley  at  the  very  spot  where  he 
and  Elise  had  one  night  entered  the  building 
where  the  hirelings  of  the  "  Compagnie  "  had 
met  Jacques  Therdier.  The  thought  had  come 
to  him  that  he  could  find  the  way  they  had 
taken  that  evening  on  their  return  to  her  room. 
The  hesitancy  he  had  then  felt  was  not  present 
in  him  now;  for  a  greater  dread  overwhelmed 
it.  He  had  not  taken  time  to  speculate  on  what 
had  happened.  No  one  had  told  him  that  the 
murder  had  been  done,  or  the  strangler  found, 
in  Therdier's.  In  all  the  cries  of  the  mob  no 
name  he  knew  had  struck  his  ears.  From  the 
point  he  had  reached  in  the  packed  thorough- 
fare, he  had  not  been  able,  visually,  to  deter- 
mine what  was  the  objective  place  of  the  furious 
mob.  Indeed,  so  changed  had  been  the  char- 
acter of  the  gathering  by  the  coming  of  men 
from  all  parts  of  the  city,  that  none  except 
those  thousand  or  two  in  the  densest  part  knew 
the  true  meaning  of  all  that  violence.  The  one 
cry  that  rose  out  of  the  tumult  was,  "  The 
strangler!" — a  cry  terrible  enough  to  justify 
everything.  It  was  enough  for  Drake.  He 
did  not  care  to  learn  more  then.  Elise's  out- 
burst had  prepared  him  for  anything ;  and  there 
was  in  his  brain  a  dull  understanding  of  it  all, 
and  in  his  heart  a  dread  he  dared  not  analyse. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  263 

To  get  into  the  house  of  Therdier  was  the  pres- 
ent business;  and  he  knew  in  his  soul  that  he 
would  be  too  late.  Yet  he  must  be  there, 
quickly. 

The  alley,  though  men  hurried  through  it  in 
both  directions,  was  not  crowded  like  the  street. 
But  it  was  dark,  and  Drake  had  no  gentle  hand 
to  guide  him  now;  and  he  found  the  going 
difficult.  Tripping  over  rubbish,  splashing 
through  pools  of  mud  and  water,  stumbUng 
against  jagged  fences  and  swinging  gates,  he 
came  at  last  to  a  door  which  he  thought  was 
the  rear  entrance  to  Therdier's.  He  turned  the 
knob,  and  stepped  into  a  dimly-lighted  kitchen. 
But  it  was  not  the  Therdier  kitchen;  for  upon 
his  appearance  without  warning  there,  three 
women  who  had  been  huddling  around  a  stove, 
leaped  to  their  feet  with  shrieks  of  fear,  and 
cowered  against  the  wall.  Drake  stayed  long 
enough  to  reassure  them,  and  then  hurried 
away.  Creeping  cautiously  along,  he  came, 
after  what  seemed  to  him  hours  of  toil,  to  the 
place  near  the  end  of  the  alley  where  he  knew 
the  door  of  Therdier's  house  must  be.  This  part 
of  the  alley  was  now  almost  free  from  people; 
but  the  street  before  him,  like  that  which  he  had 
left,  was  a  mass  of  raging  humanity.  So  ab- 
sorbed were  these  men  in  their  mad  desire  to  reach 


264  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

the  street  where  the  centre  of  the  mob  was,  that 
they  paid  no  attention  to  the  alley ;  and  Drake 
was  able  to  reach  the  shadowed  door  unnoticed. 
He  stumbled  up  the  low  wooden  step,  and  fum- 
bled around  the  door  till  his  hand  fell  upon 
the  knob.  The  door  was  locked.  He  shook  it 
violently,  but  though  it  appeared  to  be  not 
very  solid,  still  it  would  not  yield.  Baffled 
and  dismayed,  Drake  stood  for  a  few  seconds, 
trying  to  think.  Then  he  stepped  into  the 
alley  again,  and  surveyed  the  rear  of  the  build- 
ing. A  dim  light  came  through  the  win- 
dows. The  silence  of  the  house  was  deadly 
and  chill,  in  contrast  with  the  roaring  of  the 
mob.  As  Drake  scanned  the  wall  and  the  win- 
dows, he  heard  the  noise  in  the  street  suddenly 
increase  in  volume,  and  then  as  suddenly  die 
away  into  a  silence  that  was  more  terrible  than 
the  turmoil.  Maddened  almost  by  anxiety,  and 
made  desperate  by  this  new  phase  of  the  savage 
horde's  career,  Drake  rushed  to  the  single  win- 
dow that  was  within  his  reach,  and  tried  to  open 
it.  He  could  not  move  it.  Raging  under  such 
defeat,  he  stepped  back  to  the  middle  of  the 
alley,  measured  the  distance  between  him  and 
the  door,  and  ran  and  hurled  himself  against  it 
with  all  his  might.  The  fastenings  of  the  lock 
gave  way,  but  still  held  sufficiently  to  bar  his 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  265 

entrance  effectually.  Once  more  he  retreated, 
and  again  hurled  himself  against  the  door. 
This  time  it  yielded,  flew  open  with  a  crash,  and 
banged  against  the  wall  of  the  kitchen.  Drake 
fell  headlong  upon  the  floor,  and  lay  there  a  few 
seconds,  stunned.  When  he  arose,  he  could 
hardly  stand  because  of  the  pain  in  his  shoulder ; 
but  he  gathered  himself  together,  and  stumbled 
up  the  stairs  leading  to  the  second  floor. 

In  the  meantime,  the  three  reporters  whose 
duty  it  was  to  follow  the  steel  rail,  did  their 
work  well  and  arrived  at  the  front  of  the 
clamouring  multitude  with  the  men  who  had 
brought  it  from  the  railroad  yards.  The  grey- 
haired  leader  called  to  them  to  hurry.  One  end 
of  the  rail  was  pushed  up  to  him.  He  reached 
for  it,  and  hundreds  of  hands  clawed  the  air  in 
eagerness  to  have  a  part  in  breaking  down  the 
door.  The  shouting  now  was  deafening;  the 
rage  of  the  mob  was  at  white  heat;  and  it 
seemed  that  the  hundreds  of  frantic  men  would 
with  one  impulse  hurl  themselves  upon  the  house, 
and  with  their  naked  hands  tear  it  to  pieces. 

At  that  instant  the  red-curtained  door  was 
flung  wide  open ;  the  hght  from  the  interior  was 
shed  brilliantly  upon  the  faces  of  the  wild  and 
hungry  pack;  and  Henry  Woolford  stepped 
quietly  and  with  dignity  out  upon  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

He  is  up 
There  like  a  Roman  statue!    He  will  stand 
Till  death  hath  made  him  marble! 

— Chafmak. 

For  almost  a  minute  Woolford  looked  curiously 
upon  the  scene  before  him.  One  hand  was 
thrust  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  the  other 
hung  listlessly  at  his  side.  He  was  serene.  His 
countenance  showed  no  trace  of  the  awful  delir- 
ium through  which  he  had  passed.  His  clear 
eyes  swept  over  the  mob;  and  thereupon  the 
shouting  ceased;  a  hush  came  upon  the  rabble, 
and  every  man  near  enough  to  see,  stood  still. 
The  man  they  had  cursed  and  sought  for  hours 
to  slaughter  was  there  before  them,  alone  and 
helpless,  and  yet  there  was  something  so  com- 
pelling in  that  tall,  grand  figure  that  they  were 
inspired  with  awe;  and  even  the  determined 
leader  on  the  steps  was  moved  to  dumb  sub- 
mission. 

When  the  silence  was  complete,  save  for  the 
hurried  breathing  of  a  thousand  men,  and  in- 
distinguishable sounds  from  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  Woolford  raised  his  arm  commandingly. 
266 


ART  THOV  THE  MAN  ?  267 

The  straining  eyes  of  all  that  rabble  were  upon 
him ;  bearded  lips  were  parted  in  amazement ; 
bloated  faces  were  relaxed;  and  vengeful  arms 
became  inert  and  purposeless.  Woolford  held 
his  arm  aloft  till  he  had  fixed  the  attention  of 
every  man  within  his  sight.  Then  he  began  to 
speak,  in  tones  that  crashed  and  rang  like  the 
shock  of  steel  on  steel. 

*'  What  do  you  mean  by  this  exhibition  ?  "  he 
cried. 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  a  reply.  A 
blear-eyed  ruffian  near  the  steps  found  his  voice, 
and  cried  out,  "  We  want  the  strangler !  '* 

Woolford  looked  down  upon  him,  and  the  fel- 
low quailed,  and  shrank  back  behind  another. 

"  Are  you  mad?  "  the  lawyer  continued.  *'  Is 
your  lust  for  blood  so  hot  that  you  cannot 
think?  Are  you  cowards  that  in  your  frenzy 
you  would  murder  an  innocent  man  ?  " 

His  words,  though  slow  and  calm,  hurt  like 
the  flat  of  a  sword  upon  their  backs.  The 
white-haired  leader  started  angrily  toward 
Woolford,  and  lifted  his  arm,  and  began  to 
shout  a  curse.  Woolford  did  not  stir,  but  bent 
upon  the  man  a  look  so  threatening  and  black 
that  the  curse  died  in  the  man's  throat,  and  he 
slunk  away  again,  and  hung  his  head.  Raising 
his  right  arm  deliberately,  and  pointing  a  finger 


«68         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

at  him,  Woolford,  in  a  voice  that  carried  to  the 
utmost  limit  of  the  throng,  and  was  so  charged 
with  accusation  and  contempt  that  the  men  near- 
est him  recoiled,  cried  out : 

"  Do  you  people  know  this  coward  who  is 
leading  you?  Ten  years  ago  this  very  month 
he  murdered,  in  cold  blood,  his  poor,  sick  wife. 
He  came  to  me,  and  lied  to  me,  and  I  defended 
him.  I  saved  him  from  the  gallows — this  brute ; 
and  when  it  was  too  late  to  punish  him,  I  dis- 
covered that  a  mad  dog  is  more  worthy  of  mercy 
than  he  is.     You,  yes,  you — you  murderer !  *' 

"  It's  a  lie !  It's  a  lie !  "  shrieked  the  old  man, 
while  his  face  first  paled,  and  then  blazed  with 
fury,  and  his  body  shrivelled  up  with  fear. 
"  It's  a  lie !  Damn  you !  I  never  saw  you  be- 
fore!" 

But  he  did  not  move,  and  could  not  keep  his 
gaze  off  Woolford.  Stirred  by  the  lawyer's 
words,  the  men  whose  minds  had  been  quite  made 
up  a  little  while  before,  were  now  confused,  and 
looked  from  Woolford  to  the  man,  and  back  to 
Woolford,  muttering  angrily  the  while. 

Having  thus  disposed  of  the  leader  of  the 
rabble,  Woolford  now  turned  his  attention  to 
the  worthy  citizens  that  composed  it.  His  voice 
now  changed.  There  was  just  a  touch  of 
pathos  in  it,  but  no  note  of  pleading,  and  not  a 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  269 

hint  of  fear.  It  was  borne  like  a  simple  melody 
over  the  congregation  of  distorted  faces. 

"  I  am  Henry  Woolford,  the  lawyer,"  he  said. 
"  Whom  do  you  seek?  " 

"  We  want  the  strangler !  "  shouted  a  man  far 
back  in  the  crowd. 

The  cry  was  repeated  here  and  there.  On 
the  edge  of  the  assemblage,  near  the  stone  wall 
of  the  house,  another  man  raised  his  arm,  and 
cried : 

"  You  are  the  man ! "  It  was  Pete,  the 
gambler. 

"  Seize  him !     Kill  him !     Hang  him !  " 

The  ferocity  of  the  mob,  checked  for  the  mo- 
ment, was  now  rising  again.  The  mutterings 
and  shouts  increased,  there  was  a  surging  move- 
ment, and  the  heavy  faces  showed  the  storm 
was  up  again.  But  Woolford's  expression  did 
not  change.  The  men  nearest  him  were  stilled ; 
and  more  slowly  than  before,  the  noise  subsided 
until  there  was  only  a  fragmentary  clamour 
far  out  on  the  uncertain  edges  of  the  throng. 
When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  low  and  mel- 
low, and  was  weighted  with  such  sadness  and 
pity  that  even  those  sordid  and  degraded  men 
were  touched  and  a  little  shamed.  Never  since 
he  began  to  speak  was  the  silence  so  intense  as 
now. 


ftIO         ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  In  this  house,  in  a  gorgeous  room  all  roses, 
amid  her  silks,  her  gold  and  her  jewels,  lies  the 
body  of  a  poor  girl.  She  sleeps  in  a  pool  of 
blood.  An  hour  ago,  she  was  fair  beyond  the 
dreams  of  other  women ;  now,  her  beautiful  body 
stiffens  and  grows  cold.  Death  has  stolen  away 
the  roses  from  her  cheeks,  the  diamonds  from  her 
eyes,  and  the  rubies  from  her  lips.  In  a  little 
while  you  shall  see  her,  cold — still — dead.  You 
shall " 

"Her  murderer!  Where  is  he?"  one  man 
cried ;  and  the  rabblement  took  up  the  query. 

"  Where  is  he  ?     Let  us  have  him !  " 

"  The  man  you  want  is  beyond  your  reach  and 
beyond  your  power.  When  you  go  up  there, 
you  will  find  him  lying  dead  across  her  body." 

Henry's  voice  was  now  thin  and  sweet  as  the 
plaintive  creeping  of  the  fifes  when  fresh  flowers 
are  put  upon  the  graves.  A  shiver  ran  through 
the  mob,  and  some  men  moved  uneasily. 

"  Prove  what  you  say !  "  shouted  one  fellow 
with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  face  on  which  no 
vestige  of  human  comeliness  remained.  He  had 
a  huge  club  in  his  right  hand,  and  he  brandished 
it  as  violently  as  the  density  of  the  crowd  around 
him  would  permit.  Woolford  cast  one  glance 
at  him. 

**  Patience,  fellow !     The  dead  will  not  escape 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  271 

you.  What  has  this  poor  girl — what  has  this 
man  done  that  in  the  peacefulness  of  death,  a 
howling,  cursing,  violating  horde  of  worse  than 
beasts  should  desecrate  that  chamber,  and  cry 
for  blood  that  is  already  growing  cold!  It 
were  better  that  you  make  a  funeral  pyre  of  this 
cursed  house,  and  make  a  winding-sheet  of  flame 
for  these  two  unhappy  ones.  Fire  is  good  when 
the  brain  is  tired,  and  when  the  body  chills. 
And  the  fire  that  warms  their  poor,  cold  limbs 
will  cool  your  bestial  fury." 

"  Into  the  house !  Into  the  house !  "  was  now 
the  cry. 

"  Let  us  see  for  ourselves ! "  rose  the  morbid 
clamour,  far  and  near. 

There  was  a  mighty  forward  movement  that 
appeared  this  time  to  be  final  and  irresistible; 
but  Woolford,  still  in  command,  with  a  ges- 
ture silenced  them.  His  lips  curled.  A  rage 
greater  than  the  crowd's  had  ever  been,  glowed, 
leapt,  and  spread  in  his  eyes. 

"  Curs !  "  he  cried,  in  tones  that  scorched. 
"  You  don't  dare  to  touch  me !  Dare  to  lay  a 
hand  on  me,  and  I  tell  you  that  within  an  hour, 
this  very  mob  will  take  that  man,  and,  like  a 
pack  of  jackals,  will  tear  him,  rend  him,  and 
howl  to  see  his  blood  sprinkle  their  clothing. 
Back,  you  cowards !     Back,  I  say !  " 


J872  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

Astounded,  cowed,  and  expectant,  the  mob 
halted,  and  stared  at  that  fiery  figure  on  the 
steps.  He  was  alone  there  now,  for  the  whilom 
leader  had  long  since  slipped  down  and  hid  him- 
self. Woolford's  face  was  pale,  but  still  serene, 
save  for  the  anger  in  his  eyes  and  the  curling  of 
his  lips.  His  head  was  thrown  back,  and  his 
form  erect  and  proud. 

"  I  haven't  finished  with  you  yet,  you  ver- 
min ! "  he  sneered.  "  You  are  quite  used  to 
being  walked  upon.  Men,  a  thousand  times  less 
than  I,  use  you  every  day  of  your  lives  for  their 
own  purposes.  Oh,  I  know  you!  It's  only 
when  you  meet  in  a  mob  like  this  that  you  sud- 
denly grow  so  brave;  and  find  in  your  burnt- 
out  souls  a  little  spark  of  courage — a  spark 
that  I  can  blow  out  with  a  breath.  If  I  wanted 
to  walk  out  through  this  crowd  unharmed,  do 
you  think  I  could  not  do  it.?  Bah !  You  would 
open  a  passage  for  me — would  cringe  away 
from  me — and  would  shout  my  name  as  any 
rabble  does  when  it  is  permitted  to  see  a  real 
man  pass  by.  Do  you  think  Henry  Woolford 
would  accept  his  life  from  such  as  you?  " 

This  was  too  much  to  be  borne  even  by  that 
insensate  herd;  and  the  besotted  souls,  though 
still  afraid,  were  stirred  to  rage  by  these  insults 
heaped  upon  them  with  such  daring. 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  273 

"  Lynch  him  !     Lynch  him !  "  they  yelled. 

"  A  rope !  Get  a  rope ! "  they  fairly 
screamed  in  their  frenzy. 

As  they  pushed  and  struggled  there  was  an 
ominous  sound  like  that  of  hungry  swine  chew- 
ing on  the  husks.  Woolford  again  attempted 
to  speak,  but  this  time  his  effort  was  in  vain. 
The  tumult  grew.  Yells,  curses,  and  bellow- 
ings  of  incoherent  passion  mingled  and  were 
transformed  into  a  roar  like  that  of  some  great 
furnace  under  draught.  Men  in  their  anger 
fought  and  struggled  with  one  another.  Even 
in  the  heat  of  their  one  intent,  there  was  a  mad 
discordance.  The  men  in  the  centre  and  in  the 
rear  of  the  throng  pushed  upon  those  in  front, 
who,  under  the  stern  and  challenging  eyes  of 
Woolford,  were  stricken  with  sudden  panic,  and 
strove  to  retreat.  The  result  was  that  the 
opposing  waves  of  fury  and  of  fear  mingled, 
met,  and  clashed.  Men  were  trampled  under 
foot.  Screams  of  pain  and  fright  were  added 
to  the  general  tumult.  Woolford,  calm  and 
contemptuous,  stood  and  watched  the  swaying, 
cursing,  disordered  mass  of  humanity;  and  be- 
neath the  scorn  and  the  condemnation  that  were 
depicted  upon  his  countenance,  there  appeared 
a  little  touch  of  pity.  It  lingered  there  a  mo- 
ment, like  a  thought  of  mercy  in  the  heat  of 


274  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

battle.  Then,  from  somewhere  across  the 
street,  a  report  sounded  faintly  above  the  roar, 
and  a  bullet  went  crashing  through  the  door. 
Woolford  felt  it  fan  his  cheek;  and  a  smile — 
cynical,  cold,  and  merciless — came  upon  his  lips. 
A  minute  longer  he  looked  upon  the  scene ;  then 
turned,  and  walked  into  the  house. 

While  the  mob  still  tore  itself,  Woolford 
went  straight  to  Elise's  room.  He  paused  at 
the  door,  and  looked  around  slowly — looked  at 
the  splendid  hangings,  at  the  lights  shining 
through  the  silken  ceiling,  and  at  the  rosewood 
dressing-table.  He  walked  over  to  the  table, 
and  glanced  over  the  array  of  trinkets.  In  the 
midst  of  them  stood  a  waxen  candle  in  its  stick 
of  gold.  He  picked  this  up,  held  it  in  his  hand 
a  minute,  and  then  threw  it  into  a  heap  of  silken 
draperies,  where  they  fell  thickest  from  the  wall 
upon  the  floor.  For  a  few  seconds  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  it  where  it  lay  feebly  flaring.  Then 
he  turned,  and  walked  over  to  the  body  of  Elise, 
where  she  lay  upon  the  floor,  in  her  gown  of 
white.  One  tiny  foot  protruded  from  beneath 
the  silken  robe.  A  bit  of  her  gleaming  neck 
was  visible ;  but  there  were  flecks  of  red  upon  it, 
and  a  great  stain  was  upon  the  white,  flimsy 
garment.  He  knelt  beside  the  body,  raised  it  in 
his  arms,  and  pressed  his  lips  once,  twice,  three 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN?  275 

times,  upon  the  frozen  forehead.  Then  he 
gently  laid  the  stiffening  form  back  upon  the 
roses  of  the  carpet;  and  without  rising  to  his 
feet,  drew  a  revolver  from  his  pocket,  placed  it 
carefully  to  his  breast,  and  with  steady  pressure 
pulled  the  trigger.  The  ball  went  true;  and 
Henry  fell  forward  upon  the  body  of  the  girl. 

At  the  instant  that  the  mob  found  courage  to 
enter  the  front  door,  Drake  burst  into  the 
kitchen  in  the  rear.  He  was  the  first  to  enter 
the  room  of  roses.  With  a  pang  in  his  heart, 
he  knelt,  and  raised  Woolford  in  his  arms,  and 
found  that  he  was  still  breathing. 

"  Henry !  "  he  called  to  him,  softly,  beseech- 
ingly. 

Woolford's  eyes  opened,  and  a  faint  smile  of 
recognition  came  and  dwelt  upon  his  face. 

"  Allan !  "  he  whispered,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  answered  Drake,  in  a  broken 
voice,  putting  his  ear  close  to  the  lips  that  were 
already  blue  and  almost  too  cold  to  shape  the 
words.  But  with  a  final  effort,  just  as  the  eye- 
lids drooped  wearily,  and  closed,  never  to  open 
again,  the  dying  man  murmured : 

"  Tell — Marcia — it — ^is — better — so.  I  leave 
her — to — you." 

He  was  dead. 

The  mob,  a  few  seconds  later,  rushed  into  the 


276  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

room.  Drake  stood  over  the  bodies  of  Wool- 
ford  and  Elise ;  and  told  them  who  he  was,  and 
what  had  happened.  The  man  who  had  taunted 
them  and  held  them  at  bay,  was  dead.  They 
could  not  harm  him  further.  Awed,  they 
turned,  stared  at  the  gorgeous  surroundings, 
and  then  slowly  quit  the  room.  The  word  was 
passed  along,  down  the  stairway,  out  into  the 
street,  and  through  all  the  cooUng  crowd  that 
the  lawyer  had  spoken  the  truth. 

Drake,  watching  until  the  last  ragged  ruffian 
stole  out  of  Elise's  apartments,  dully  recalling 
all  that  had  happened  there,  slowly  realised  the 
tragedy.  His  wandering  eyes  suddenly  lit  upon 
the  letter  Elise  had  left  lying  on  her  desk.  He 
picked  it  up,  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  him- 
self and  was  about  to  open  it,  when  his  gaze 
was  drawn  by  something  that  chilled  him  and 
held  him  spellbound  for  minutes  where  he  stood. 
On  the  great  mirrored  dressing-table  was  a  tall, 
slim  vase,  and  in  it  a  bunch  of  deep  red,  and 
very  large  carnations.     Unconsciously  he  found 

himself  counting,  "  one,"  "  two,"  "  three " 

There  were  thirteen  of  them.  As  he  looked  at 
this  appalling  thing,  he  became  aware  of  an- 
other object  that  dragged  his  reluctant  gaze 
away  from  the  carnations,  and  held  it  even 
more  irresistibly.     It  was  beyond   them  in  a 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN?  277 

corner  of  the  room,  and  of  even  a  brighter  hue 
than  the  brilliant  flowers.  It  had  long,  up- 
right leaves  that  lengthened  and  shortened,  bent 
and  curled,  twisted  and  writhed  and  grew. 
Looking  fixedly  upon  it,  he  saw  strange  blossoms 
bloom  among  the  leaves,  like  magic  flowers  in  a 
Hindoo  miracle.  They  blossomed  roundly,  beau- 
tifully, and  spread  and  burst  into  a  radiance. 
Then  suddenly  the  leaves  were  eaten  up  by  the 
flowers,  and  the  flowers  themselves  became  a 
great  leaping  flame ;  and  wreaths  of  blue,  pur- 
ple, and  orange  vapour  curved  toward  the 
ceiling. 

Drake,  uttering  a  cry  of  alarm,  thrust  the  let- 
ter into  his  pocket,  and  rushed  into  the  hall- 
way. 

"  Fire !  "  he  shouted,  frantically ;  heard  the 
cry  taken  up  in  the  hall  below  and  outside  the 
house ;  and  stumbled  back  into  the  room  of  roses, 
of  blood,  and  of  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

They  burnt  a  corpse  upon  the  sand — 

The  light  shone  out  afar; 
It  guided  home  the  plunging  boats 

That  beat  from  Zanzibar. 
Spirit  of  Fire,  where'er  Thy  altars  rise 
Thou  art  Light  of  Guidance  to  our  eyes  I 

— RVDYABO   KiPUKO. 

In  the  few  seconds  of  Drake's  absence  from  the 
room  of  roses  the  fire  had  made  amazing  head- 
way. When  he  returned  it  was  with  the  pur- 
pose to  drag  the  bodies  out  of  the  burning 
room,  through  the  two  other  rooms,  and  into 
the  hallway,  where  he  hoped  by  that  time  to 
have  assistance.  He  was  confronted  by  a 
sight  that  held  him  in  the  doorway  helpless  and 
gasping  for  breath.  The  rose  hues  were  now 
beaten  and  discredited  by  the  sweeping  brushes 
of  the  fire,  furiously  painting.  Three  sides  of 
the  room  were  blazing.  Long  silken  draperies 
turned  from  rose  to  flame,  and  dropped  in  ashes 
on  the  floor.  Nervous  tongues  shot  out,  licked 
the  roses  off'  the  ceiling,  laid  bare  the  walls,  and 
fed  upon  the  pictures  on  the  dressing-table. 
The  smoke  that  lifted  in  blue  wreaths  toward  the 
278 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  9  279 

ceiling  was  not  heavy  smoke,  but  had  a  faintly 
aromatic  odour,  which  sickened  Drake  before  it 
began  to  smother  him.  He  stood  but  an  in- 
stant in  the  doorway,  and  then  rushed  for- 
ward toward  the  bodies  upon  the  floor.  He 
grasped  the  collar  of  Woolford's  coat  and 
began  to  pull  the  body  toward  the  door.  But 
even  as  he  toiled,  the  flames  reached  the  divan, 
and  a  long,  slim  serpent  of  fire  squirmed  and 
wriggled  with  incredible  swiftness  along  the 
edge  of  the  orange  robe  and  came  to  Elise*s 
foot,  licking  at  her  slipper  with  its  many- 
forked  tongue,  and  swallowed  it  with  a  horrid 
little  lapping  sound  of  greed.  In  another  in- 
stant it  was  in  her  lace  and  silken  skirts,  writh- 
ing and  hissing  intolerably.  He  watched  it  till 
a  broad  streamer  of  smoke  floated  from  some- 
where across  his  face,  and  hid  the  body  from 
sight.  When  he  looked  again,  her  clothing 
was  on  fire  from  waist  to  hem,  and  the  long, 
slim  serpent  was  at  her  throat.  Drake  uttered 
a  cry  of  horror,  which  was  quickly  changed 
to  one  of  dismay  and  pain ;  for  the  flames  now 
leaped  upon  him,  and  he  felt  his  clothing  catch- 
ing afire.  He  stepped  back,  and  with  one  final 
vision  of  the  red  serpent  coiling  itself  among 
the  black  rings  of  Elise's  hair,  and  gasping  for 
breath,    half-blinded,    he    staggered    from    the 


280  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

room  and  fell  down  the  stairs.  Upon  reaching 
the  street,  he  hastened  to  the  nearest  drug  store 
to  telephone  a  message  to  Marcia,  who,  through 
all  the  excitement  and  horror  of  the  night,  had 
been  present  in  his  thoughts.  When  kneeling 
with  Woolford  in  his  arms  and  hearing  his  last 
words,  Drake's  first  impulse  had  been  to  go  to 
her;  but  that  was  then  impossible,  for  the  mob 
was  already  in  the  house.  Later,  when  he  had 
sent  the  ruffians  away,  and  again  when  he  had 
gone  out  into  the  hallway  to  give  the  alarm  of 
fire,  it  was  his  intention  to  force  his  way  from 
the  house  and  hasten  to  the  Woolford  home; 
but  immediate  duty  held  him.  Having  failed 
in  his  effort  to  save  the  bodies  from  the  fire,  he 
was  now  free  to  go  to  Marcia.  How  could  he 
tell  her  what  had  happened.''  He  would  post- 
pone it  for  a  little  while.  Then  an  expedient 
occurred  to  him.  He  got  the  night  chief 
operator,  and  secured  a  ready  promise  that  the 
Woolford  telephone  be  disconnected  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  night;  he  called  up  the  night 
captain  of  police  and  caused  two  detectives  to 
be  sent  to  watch  the  Woolford  home  lest  some 
one  might  carry  to  her  the  news  of  her  brother's 
death.  And  finally  he  wrote  the  poor  girl  a 
short  note  telling  her  that  Henry  was  with  him ; 
that  he  was  quite  calm,  but  that  he  would  take 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ?  281 

him  to  Dr.  Hammond's  and  leave  him  there. 
Having  accomphshed  all  these  things,  Drake 
walked  rapidly  to  the  Record  office,  his  dom- 
inating thought  then  being  that  he  must  write 
the  story  of  Henry  Woolford's  death. 

When  he  reached  the  local  room  the  other 
men  were  writing  furiously,  but  all  stared  at 
him  as  he  entered.  His  coat  had  been  burnt 
through  in  several  places,  and  one  sleeve  was 
gone.  His  hair  was  singed  short  on  one  side 
of  his  head,  his  face  was  flushed  and  raw  as  the 
result  of  its  close  contact  with  the  flames,  and 
from  under  his  singed  eyebrows  his  eyes  shone 
feverishly  and  without  meaning.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  went  to  his  desk,  arranged  his 
writing-paper,  and  grasped  a  pencil  clumsily 
in  his  bandaged  hand. 

"  Henry  Woolford  is  dead.     He  died " 

He  stopped,  looked  vacantly  at  the  sentence, 
and  tore  up  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  it  was 
written.  He  began  once  more,  and  destroyed 
the  next  sheet  as  he  had  the  first.  Again  and 
again  he  tried  in  vain.  The  city  editor  came 
and  stood  by  his  desk. 

"  Write  as  much  as  you  can,  Drake,"  he 
said.  "  Yours  will,  of  course,  be  the  main 
story — three  or  four  columns,  I  should  say. 
The  others  are  writing  features  in  detail." 


«8«  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

He  looked  sympathetically  at  Drake,  but  said 
no  more.  It  was  not  a  time  for  personal  solici- 
tude. Drake  stared  a  little  longer  at  the  sheet 
of  blank  paper.  Somehow  he  could  not  write — 
could  not  frame  a  sentence.  In  his  brain  there 
was  only  a  mad  jumble  of  visions :  Elise,  Wool- 
ford,  the  fire,  Marcia.  Mechanically  he  drew 
his  notebook  from  his  pocket,  and  from  between 
the  leaves  dropped  a  letter.  Slowly  he  opened 
it  and  read: 

Mon  6i«n  aimS: — 

Elise  lied    to  you  to-night.     You  will   not  think  un- 
kindly of  her,  will  you,  Allan?    Woolford  is  here.     Do 
not  let  them  blame  him.    I  am  going  to  end  it  all  in  a  few 
moments.    Le  Bon  Dieu  will  be  merciful — will  pity  me. 
Je  t'aime — Je  t' adore — Adieu, 

£U8E. 

Into  the  reddened  eyes  of  Drake  tears  came 
unwillingly.  Poor  girl!  he  said  to  himself,  re- 
membering how  she  had  looked  in  the  pride  of 
her  beauty — the  laughing,  tantalising  crea- 
ture. And  she  had  loved  him!  He  put  the 
thought  aside  to  hasten  with  his  writing,  that 
he  might  soon  go  to  Marcia.  How  could  he 
ever  tell  her !  And  how  could  he  write  that 
story!  The  lawyer  was  her  brother,  and  his 
friend.  To  parade  their  tragedy  before  the 
curious  eyes  that  would  on  the  morrow  devour 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  ? 

the  pages  of  the  paper !  It  was  bad  enough 
that  somebody  must  feed  the  morbid  hankerings 
of  the  pubHc  with  grief  so  private  and  so 
humiliating  as  this;  but  that  he — Drake,  the 
friend — the  trusted  friend,  should  do  that — 
should  sit  there  and  with  vivid  words  describe 
the  fall  of  Henry  Woolford,  and  the  pitiable 
distress  of  the  girl,  the  sister  whom  he  loved — 
that  was  too  much.  He  dropped  his  pencil; 
then  slowly  picked  it  up  again.  The  paper! 
He  had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  ever  be 
recreant,  be  disloyal,  be  found  wanting  there. 
Must  he  now  write  that  story,  though  it  be  with 
his  own  heart's  blood? 

"  A  mob,  fired  by  the  rumour  that  the 
strangler " 

Again  he  stopped  and  looked  around  the 
room.  The  other  men  were  writing  rapidly, 
and  in  silence.  Armstrong,  chewing  the  stub 
of  a  cigar,  read  page  after  page  of  copy,  and 
sent  it  to  the  composing-room.  Upstairs  the 
linotypes  rattled  and  jarred  as  the  story  of  the 
tragedy  and  of  the  mob  went  into  type.  The 
night  editor  came  in,  looked  anxiously  at  the 
clock,  and  had  a  whispered  conference  with 
Armstrong.     It  was  now  2.15  o'clock. 

Suddenly  Drake  ceased  to  stare  about  him, 
bent  forward,  and  wrote  these  words : 


284  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Armstrong.    This  is  my  resignation. 

Allax  Drake. 

Then  he  arose  from  his  chair.  His  face, 
still  red  from  the  effect  of  heat,  was  blotched 
with  pallor,  and  there  was  a  look  of  anguish 
in  his  eyes.  He  staggered  out  of  the  room, 
almost  unnoticed  by  the  busy  men  around  him. 
Murphy  saw  him  go,  and  stood  up  as  if  to  fol- 
low him;  but  hesitated,  and  finally  sank  back 
into  his  seat.  A  reporter  came  in  to  say  that 
the  fire  was  under  control,  but  that  the  interior 
of  the  building  had  been  destroyed,  and  the 
bodies  of  Elise  and  Woolford  reduced  to  ashes 
amid  the  ruins. 

Presently  Armstrong  noticed  that  Drake  was 
not  in  the  room.  He  walked  over  to  the  vacated 
desk,  looked  for  the  heaped-up  manuscript  that 
should  have  been  there,  and  found  only  the  pen- 
cilled resignation.  He  became  red  with  anger, 
but  did  not  speak  till  the  flush  had  left  his  face, 
and  his  voice  was  calm. 

"  Murphy,"  he  said,  "  Drake  is  ill.  You'll 
have  to  write  an  introduction.  Make  it  a  col- 
umn, if  you  can.  It  puts  us  in  a  bad  hole, 
but » 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

And  I  think  in  the  lives  of  most  women  and  men, 
There  are  moments  when  all  would  go  smooth  and  even. 

If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven. 

— OwBir  Meredith. 

It  was  October  again.  From  the  broad  ve- 
randah of  Dr.  Hammond's  ranch-house,  perched 
high  up  in  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies,  Mar- 
cia  was  watching  the  trees  with  their  leaves 
dipped  in  the  sunset's  overflow,  and  flaunting 
their  colours  like  little  children  vain  of  their 
finery;  and  ever  and  anon  glancing  upward  at 
the  towering  peaks  with  their  tops  covered  with 
snow.  The  kind  old  doctor  had  off^ered  the 
place  to  them,  and  Drake  gladly  accepted  that 
which  was  practically  a  conmiand  from  the 
physician  to  enable  Marcia  to  rest  and  regain 
her  health.  Absorbed  in  the  wonderful  view 
and  her  thoughts,  she  did  not  hear  the  foot- 
steps behind  her,  and  it  was  not  until  two 
arms  were  put  around  her  neck  that  the  girl 
cried : 

"  Why,  Allan !     What  made  you  so  late .''     I 
expected  you  on  the  early  train." 
985 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  Dearest,  I  missed  it — met  Murphy — 
and " 

"  Always  that  Murphy,"  answered  Marcia, 
with  a  happy  laugh. 

"  You  had  better  not  run  down  Murphy — for 
he's  your  friend,"  retorted  Drake. 

"  Indeed !     And  how  so  ?  " 

"  Told  me  this  morning  that  he  never  could 
make  out  why  you  consented  to  marry  me." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  to  have  some  one  to  take  care 
of  me,"  she  replied,  coyly. 

Drake  smiled. 

"  As  to  that,  it  looks  now  as  if  I  had  married 
quite  an  heiress.  I  saw  Doctor  Hammond  yes- 
terday. He  expects  the  court  to  discharge  him 
as  the  executor  of  the  estate  this  week.  He  has 
done  very  well,  considering  how  tangled  things 
were.  You  will  own  the  house,  a  half-interest 
in  a  good  mining  property  and  quite  an  amount 
in  gilt-edged  securities,  not  counting " 

"  My  chief  possession,"  Marcia  broke  in, 
quickly. 

Drake  looked  puzzled. 

*' '  A  loaf  of  bread — and  thou,' "  she  whis- 
pered. 

They  were  silent  a  long  time,  their  hands 
tight  in  each  other's  grasp.  Presently,  as  night 
began  to  fall,  he  drew  her  into  the  "  living- 


ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f  287 

room,"  where  a  sudden  flaring  of  the  flames  in 
the  huge  fireplace  threw  a  gleam  across  her  face, 
heightening  the  colour  there,  burnishing  the 
rusty  places  the  shadows  had  made  in  her  hair. 

As  Drake  regarded  her  thus,  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  those  terrible,  ever-present  days  of 
her  sorrow.  How  she  must  have  suffered !  How 
she  trusted  and  believed  in  him ! 

"  I  love  you,  Marcia,  dear,"  he  said,  simply. 

"  And  you  have  quite  forgotten  that  beauti- 
ful girl.?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  was  she  in  love  with  you .?  " 

"  No.  No,  dear,  no !  If  you  knew  all  about 
the  poor  girl  you  would  understand — feel  very 
sorry  for  her  sad  end." 

Marcia  dropped  her  hand  from  his  and 
pushed  back  some  loosened  locks  of  hair.  There 
was  something  in  her  attitude  so  sweet  and  wist- 
ful that  it  keenly  touched  him. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  about  her,  Marcia .?  " 

The  young  wife  did  not  answer  at  once ;  but 
for  a  while  kept  her  eyes  downcast,  and  her 
fingers  twitched  nervously.  Then,  with  swift, 
final  decision,  she  lifted  her  face  up  to  him,  and 
there  was  a  look  upon  it  that  he  would  treasure 
even  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life. 

«  No." 


288  ART  THOU  THE  MAN  f 

"  And  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you !  " 

Drake  reached  forward  quickly  and  caught 
her  to  him.  Gently,  almost  reverently,  he  kissed 
her,  and  there  was  much  peace. 

"  If  Henry  were  only  here,"  said  Marcia, 
with  intense  emotion. 

Drake  did  not  answer,  but  fondled  and 
soothed  her  until,  in  a  voice  that  trembled,  she 
murmured : 

"  That  awful  night,  when  Henry — first  told 
me  of  his  trouble,  he  said  that  we  must,  hand  in 
hand,  go  down  through  the  fury  of  the  storm 
and,  hand  in  hand,  up  to  the  sunlight  on  the 
other  side.  Allan,  dearest,  this  must  be  the 
other  side.** 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG 


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